Revelation COMPLETE
by Lexwing
Summary: Dr. Hamilton is accused of murder, and Lex and Clark try to solves the mystery
1. Default Chapter

Revelation

In which Dr. Hamilton is charged with murder, Lex tries his hand at detective work, and Clark learns there are good lies, bad lies, and lies that can get you killed.

Category: Mystery

Rating: PG-13 for some mild language and violence

Time: sometime after "Vortex" but before "Duplicity"

Disclaimer: all characters of the Superman universe are property of DC Comics, the WB, et al.  The rest of this work is fiction.  NOTE: I am neither a scientist nor a lawyer.  Please do not try to apply any of this to the real world.

P

Molecular Biology Laboratory, Metropolis University, 11:58 PM 

     "Supercomputer, hah!  More like a $600,000 piece of junk," the young woman mumbled to herself as the lab's main computer whizzed and bleeped tiredly to itself.  Angela McKay leaned back, trying to stretch her back as she waited for the machine to crunch the latest stream of data pulled from the scanning electron microscopes across the room.

   She supposed she really couldn't blame the computer for being sluggish—she felt that way herself.  The rest of campus had long since gone dark—students now crammed back into the University's outdated and stuffy dorms, professors sound asleep under their imported down duvets.  But as usual she remained at work, plugging away at data that may very well prove to have no practical purpose whatsoever.

    Of course, Angela knew better than to curse the fates that had planted her at Metropolis U.  Many another grad student was still slaving away, teaching Bio Chem to bored freshmen, while she had the rare privilege of working with Dr. Roshenko, not only a brilliant scientist but a hell of a nice guy, as well.  He had tried to get her to go home hours ago, telling her, in an accent still heavy with his native Ukraine, "Ms. McKay, please, you've been here since before dawn.  The little molecules will not mind if you'd rather spent your evening elsewhere."  When she'd insisted on remaining to finish that day's last bit of data he'd had the wisdom to only shake his grizzled head and leave her to work in peace.  He'd even brought her a fresh Diet Coke to keep her caffeine buzz going.

    Angela had a tough time explaining to people (well, people who weren't scientists, anyway) how she could stand to spend such long hours in Roshenko's basement lab.  The work, of course, was fascinating—Roshenko's work on unstable molecular reactions and their biological consequences was without peer—but also she was driven to follow his example.  A lifelong bachelor, Evgeny Roshenko's whole life was his work.  He came in before dawn, and stayed well into the night, often working on weekends as well.  As far as Angela knew the man didn't even have a hobby, unless you counted the books that filled every room of his tiny house on the east side of town.  Even those were very scholarly.  And he had had picked her, Angela McKay, fresh out of the undergraduate class at Central City University, to be his assistant.  Sure, she had been at the top of her class, class valedictorian, and had already published a paper looking at the implications of unstable molecules for cancer research, but still.  Even after two years, it was often hard to believe her good fortune.

   "My dear girl," Dr. Roshenko would sigh whenever she tried to thank him for selecting her over those other applicants from Harvard and Oxford, "you are too hard on yourself.  I chose you because you were the best qualified."  Here he would always squint and rub the bridge of his nose, as if his glasses hurt him.  "I am an old man now.  You will be my last protégé, and, I believe, my best."

   Now how could she refuse to work late for a man like that?

   The computer finally spat out the numbers, and Angela added them to the neat stack on her crowded desk.  She went around the room working to put things in order for the next day: clean slides ready to be prepared in the morning, check.  Bunsen burners off, check.  The computers she left on, as she had been doing lately at Roshenko's insistence.  Every department in the science building had gotten a nasty letter from Dean Carroll about wasting electricity, but Angela suspected Roshenko always returned to the lab after her departure, to spend several more hours communing with his research.  She did dim the lights a bit, though, just in case someone decided to peek in the windows and rat them out to the dean.  She then grabbed her shoulder bag and left through the swinging doors on the south end of the lab.  

     She climbed the ugly metal staircase to the first floor, wondering for the hundredth time why the University didn't find better facilities for the good doctor.  After all, the man was famous, in his own small way.  But the University preferred to put their money into more visible status symbols, like the new business building across the quad.  The Luthor Business Building, named after the first family of Metropolis who had donated the money for the rather monstrous Romanesque structure.  Many in the community (and a few professors) called it the "Temple of Greed."  But only when no one in administration could overhear.

     "We have a hard time selling molecular biology to the public, Ange," her friend Susan over in Grants and Corporate Sponsorship had explained.  "Business, medicine, people _get_ those.  But you'd need a PhD and a microscope to figure out Roshenko's work.  It just isn't, well, _sexy_."

     Frowning at the memory of that conversation, Angela walked down the hall toward the exit onto Fisher Street.  Suddenly, movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she stopped.

     Last semester the doors into all the faculty offices had been fitted with ugly panes of pale green glass in an attempt to modernize the 1960s concrete building.  All of the offices were dark now, except for Roshenko's, and through the glass she could see the doctor gesticulating wildly.  His mouth was moving, as if in an argument with someone, and at first Angela figured he was on the phone or even arguing with himself over some new theory.  She'd seen him do stranger things.  But then another figure moved into the frame, and Angela hastily stepped backed into the shadows where she wouldn't be seen.  She drew in a sharp breath.

   The man Dr. Roshenko was arguing with was Dr. Steven Hamilton, the very last person on earth Angela would have ever expected to see here.

   _It's none of my business_, she told herself hastily.  _I'm sure Dr. Roshenko has a good reason for having him here._

_   In the middle of the night?_  _Maybe I should check on them_.

   _Don't be stupid, Angela.  You can't hear what they're saying.  For all you know they're arguing about the last Metropolis Sharks game._

     Ignoring the deep feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach, Angela gave one more quick look through the glass.  The two men were still deep in what appeared to be a less heated, but still intense, conversation.

     You can ask him about it tomorrow.  The doc's never lied to you.  I'm sure you're worrying about nothing.

     With that last glance, Angela pulled her bag up higher on her shoulder and left.

P

Smallville, the following evening 

     "Hey, Clark, what do you think of the new setup?"  Clark's best friend, Pete Ross, clapped him on the back as he came through the door.  Looking across the crowded tables of the Talon, Clark spotted what Pete was talking about.  Two good-sized televisions had been mounted on the walls, one just to the left of the huge espresso machine, and one across the room above a row of comfortable couches.  Right now they were tuned to the local news, but the sound was off.

   "Pretty cool," he admitted, tossing his jacket down next to the chair Pete waved him to.  "What's the occasion?"

   "WNN is talking about televising all the Crow games this fall," Chloe Sullivan explained.  Chloe always seemed to be hard-wired into what was happening in Smallville, a combination of her journalistic instinct and a natural tendency to keep her ears open at all times.  "I guess Lana Lang thinks it would boost business if people could watch the games here instead of sitting in the cold."

   "The idea does have its appeal," Clark admitted absently, his eyes instinctively seeking out the dark haired girl behind the counter.  Lana was laughing as she handed a tray full of cups to one of the waitresses.  As always, she looked beautiful.  He caught her eye and she waved, picking up an order pad and making her way to their table.  Clark felt Chloe stiffen a bit next to him, and nearly sighed aloud.  He had apologized upside down and backward to Chloe for leaving her at the spring dance so he could find Lana, and Chloe kept insisting she understood, and it was cool.

   Cool was the word, all right.  Whenever they were together and Lana was near the temperature in the room plummeted.

   Pete was no help, either.  Pete though the whole thing was kind of funny.  Yeah, funny as a train wreck, Clark thought.

   "What can I get you guys?" 

   "Cappuccino," Pete ordered.

   "Same for me," Clark smiled.  Oh, how he wished Lana could remember how he had rescued her during the tornado!  Once, just once, he'd like her to know what he was capable of doing.

   "Nice televisions, Lana," Chloe began.  "Going to charge extra to watch the games here?  Offer Crow cafe lattes?"

   "I haven't decided yet." Lana blushed slightly, as she always did when confronted with one of Chloe's sharper comments.

   This time it was Pete who came to the rescue.  "I think it's a great idea—I hate freezing my butt off on those bleachers, and we only have a 24 inch screen at home."

     "Same here," Clark agreed.  "Dad keeps talking about getting a bigger TV, but Mom says there are more important thing to spend money on."

   "Oh, you poor, deprived boys," Chloe said tersely.  Yes, she was in rare form tonight.  Clark could see he clearly needed to make another attempt to smooth things over.

    Puzzled by Chloe's behavior, Lana took their orders back to the bar, and after a moment Clark got up and followed her.

   "Oh, five seconds.  That's a record," Clark heard Chloe murmur under her breath.  He knew she hadn't intended him to overhear, but the comment still stung.

   "Uh, Lana, listen, could you make mine a regular espresso instead?  I've got a Geometry test to study for tonight and I'll need all the help I can get."

   "Sure, Clark.  Thompson's tests are monsters, aren't they?"  The two commiserated together on the batch of teachers the new school year had forced upon them.

   "Clark, is Chloe all right?"  Lana looked up at him with concern in her beautiful eyes.  "I can't help but notice she seems a little out of sorts."

   Clark couldn't bring himself to tell Lana the truth.  She and Chloe had seemed to be on their way to a rocky sort of understanding last semester, maybe even friendship, and now it was all screwed up.  _He'd_ screwed it up.  

   "I think she's just stressed out.  The _Torch_ is taking up most of her free time, y'know, the usual."

   "Sure."  Clark could tell Lana was doubtful, but unwilling to press the issue.  Instead she handed him his cup of coffee.

   "On the house," she smiled.

   "Now Lana, how are we ever going to turn a profit if you keep giving free drinks to all our friends?"

   Clark glanced over his shoulder and saw Lex Luthor standing there, that enigmatic half-smile on his face that made it hard to tell when he was joking and when he was serious.  This time Lex made it easy for him, giving him a barely perceptible wink as he added, "Even our very good friends."

    "Clark was just admiring our new setup and offering to hand out flyers, weren't you, Clark?"  Lana grinned at him.  He was always surprised to find evidence of Lana's own, rather sly sense of humor.

   "Uh, yeah," he stammered.

   As always, Lex saw right through him.  "Sure you did."  He stood beside Clark at the bar and ordered a rather complicated concoction involving skim milk and an extra shot of espresso.  While Lana busied herself with his order, Lex turned his attention back to Clark.

   "How's the new school year going?  Seems like I haven't seen you in awhile."

   "You haven't.  And great, thanks.  Chloe's promised me a by-line of my own in the _Torch_ this year."  Clark knew Lex's latest endeavor was keeping him very busy—LexCorp, his answer to LuthorCorp, born out of the near closing of the Smallville fertilizer plant and Lionel Luthor's injury in the tornado.  The Smallville _Ledger_ had reported, with a touch of glee, that while the elder Luthor would recover it would be slow, and that in the meantime Lex was at the head of the Luthor empire.  

     "How is your dad doing?"

     Lex shrugged.  "As well as anyone recently blinded can be.  Making life hell for his doctors and nurses."

    Clark could tell that Lex, in spite of his harsh words, was glad his old man was still alive.  But perhaps it was a good thing Lionel was too incapacitated to pay much attention to his son's actions.  Clark was just relieved to see Lex focus his attention on something other than the Kent family.  He knew how long Lex had dreamed of building an empire of his own, separate from his father, and the rescue of Plant Number 3 had raised Lex more than a few notches in the town's esteem.  Lex seemed, well, the closest thing to content that Clark could remember seeing.

     "And how about the other situation?"  Lex gave a small nod in the direction of Chloe.  He had commiserated with Clark on the disastrous date, although he had expressed disbelief that Clark actually intended to honor the quarterback's request that Clark "look after" Lana until his return.

   "No change there," Clark said softly, so Lana wouldn't overhear.

   As if Chloe herself had overheard the statement, Clark suddenly heard her voice ring out across the room, startling several people into dropping hot coffee in their laps.

   "Lana, quick!  Turn the sound up on the t.v.!"

    All heads swiveled in the direction of the screens as sound suddenly blared forth from the speakers.

   "…police will not speculate at this hour as to a motive for the murder, but the DA says they have circumstantial evidence linking Dr. Hamilton to the crime."

   The newscast cut away from the studio to a shot of a tall man being led into the Metropolis jail in handcuffs.  He looked vaguely familiar, but Clark couldn't quite place him.

    "The victim, seventy seven year-old Dr. Evgeny Roshenko, was best known for his research suggesting that the fundamentally unstable nature of molecules can be linked to both naturally occurring mutations and disease.  Dr. James Carroll, Dean of Sciences at Metropolis University, has issued a statement saying, 'We are deeply shocked and saddened at the sudden loss of such a vital member of our research community.  Rest assured that Metropolis University is working closely with law enforcement to bring the perpetrator or perpetrators of this heinous crime to justice.'  Dr. Steven Hamilton will be held pending his arraignment.  In other news…"

   Clark tuned out the broadcaster's annoyingly chatty voice.

   Hamilton.  He of the weird meteorite theories and the plastic meteorite chips.  Hamilton, who Chloe insisted was responsible for the Nicodemus flower that had nearly killed both Lana, Pete, and his father.  Hamilton had been arrested for murdering someone in Metropolis.

   "Oh, wow!"  

     Clark jumped, noticing for the first time Chloe and Pete were right behind him.  Chloe's eyes were still fixed on the screen.  "Clark, Pete, we have got to get to Metropolis, ASAP."

   Even Lex was still gazing at the screen, transfixed, it seemed, by the news.  Clark wondered if he had known the victim.  After all, Lex had gone to Metropolis U. for a while.  Clark had never heard the full story of why he'd been expelled, but, knowing Lex, it was a good one.  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask about Dr…Roshenko, was it? when Lex's cell phone went off.

   "Luthor here," Lex said tersely.

   Chloe, meanwhile, had forgotten her earlier fit of pique and seized the front of Clark's shirt.  "Clark, do you know what this means?"

   "That Dr. Steven Hamilton is a murderer?"  Pete offered.

   His sarcasm was lost on Chloe, however.  "What a story!  'Ex-Scientist Turns Killer'!  I bet it's hanging around all those meteor rocks that did it.  O.k., let's get moving—Pete, get on-line and see what the wire service it putting out about the crime—when, where, all of that.  Clark, you and I need to see Dr. Hamilton."

   As he so often did around Chloe, Clark had the feeling he was being swept away in a rushing torrent that was likely to lead over some very sharp rocks.

   "Chloe, tomorrow is a school day.  We can't go to Metropolis 'til the weekend, and there's no way we can get into the jail."

   Clark was so busy trying to stem the tide that was Chloe that he didn't notice Lex had left without saying goodbye.

P

Metropolis, same evening 

     Angela could not remember ever being this tired before in her life.  She had studied hard enough to pull a 4.4 grade point average as an undergraduate, and spent three days straight taking her doctoral exams, and all of that seemed like a picnic compared to how she felt right now.  Her eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep.  She wanted to wash the smell of cigarette smoke and desperation that permeated the headquarters of Metropolis P.D. out of her hair.  Her stomach growled uncertainly, still full of the sludge-like coffee the detectives kept giving her.

   I'm so tired I can't sleep…now I know how Kurt Cobain must have felt.

   The detectives were gone now, leaving her sitting in the ugly gray room on the torn vinyl chair, waiting for them to make up their minds about whether or not they could send her home.

   They had been over and over her statement dozens of times.  Angela had seen enough cop shows to know they were trying to see if she'd slip up, either confess or remember something she hadn't before.  But she was empty.  The story was ridiculously simple.

   She had gotten up early, as she always did, to be at work by five.  She'd walked the few blocks from her apartment to campus.  Unlocked the building.  Gone down to the lab.  Flicked on the lights…

   It had looked like a bomb had been dropped.  Papers everywhere.  Broken glass—beakers, slides, test tubes, all of it.  The monitors had been smashed with something heavy, as had the keyboards.  Suddenly boneless, her arm had dropped to her side and her bag fell, her own books and papers sliding across the mess on the floor.

   What in god's name…? 

   And then, just as she'd taken in most of the destruction, she'd seen the shoe protruding from behind one of the tables.

   She knew she should have left then and there.  Should have picked up her cell phone and called someone.  She'd felt like a character in one of those B horror movies, doing something incredibly stupid, like walking into a dark room, while the audience shouts instructions.  But her feet seemed to move on their own.

   She had found Dr. Roshenko lying on the floor, one of his arms out flung, as if he'd fallen to the ground from a great height.  She knew immediately he was dead—his eyes were open, staring, and his skin already had a bluish tinge.  She still forced herself to check for a pulse.  Nothing, just cold, dead skin.  As she had searched for hope she'd seen the dark marks around the old man's throat, marks that looked suspiciously like those of four fingers and a thumb.  

   She was glad then she never had more than coffee for breakfast.

   Everything else after that was a blur—she didn't recall calling the police, but she must have, because first campus police arrived, then Metropolis P.D.  Someone helped her upstairs to the main office while they went about cordoning off the lab and examining and then removing the body.

   She couldn't believe Dr. Roshenko, who just a few hours ago had been alive and well and plying her with soda, was now just _the body_.

       Then the detectives had started questioning her, and she could only stare at them blankly as if they were speaking a foreign language.  She could tell they were annoyed, whether with her or with the business at hand she wasn't sure.  One question, though, managed to cut it's way through her daze.

   Did you see anyone suspicious around last night or this morning?  Anyone who shouldn't have been here?

   _Yes_, she had answered.  _Dr. Steven Hamilton_.

   Angela knew the University had taken out a restraining order against Hamilton when he'd been fired years before.  He was not to come within five hundred feet of the University, or he risked arrest.  Obviously, his visit to Roshenko's office had been important enough for him to take that risk.  

     Why hadn't she knocked?  Why hadn't she checked?  Roshenko was just a helpless old man…

     The door opened, snapping her back to the present.  The lead detective on the case, an older, heavyset man named Bright, nodded.

   "O.k., Ms. McKay, you can go home now."

   "Are you sure?"

   "Yes, yes.  We'll need you to come back tomorrow to sign your statement, but so far this looks like an open and shut case.  Thank you for your cooperation."

   Angela shook her head, trying to clear it.  "Whoa, wait, open and shut?  You've arrested somebody already?"

   The other detective, a younger man named Harris, nodded.  "As Detective Bright said, thank you for your time."

   It wasn't until Angela got home that she heard about the arrest of Dr. Hamilton.  Then she _really_ felt sick.

P

     Lex left his car at a parking garage and took a cab to the Metropolis Police department's headquarters.  He knew from personal experience it was a lousy neighborhood, and that showing up in his Jaguar, or even his Lexus, wouldn't endear him to whoever had been assigned to the Roshenko case.

   Memories crept across the back of his mind as he stood in front of the Federal-style building.  Memories of being hauled here in handcuffs for a variety of transgressions.  Once he'd even spent the night in the holding tank downstairs.  Memories of being bailed out by one of his father's numerous lawyers, only to stand there, rumpled and filthy, as his father berated him for being a miserable disappointment to him, to the Luthor name.

   Ah, memories.  And those were some of the more pleasant ones.

   Inside, things were a lot quieter than he remembered, but then it was the middle of the day.  The criminal element of Metropolis usually didn't get going until five, at the earliest. 

   He asked to speak to the two detectives responsible for arresting Dr. Hamilton.  At first the young officer at the desk insisted that couldn't be done, unless he was Dr. Hamilton's lawyer, but as usual Lex found that the judicious use of the Luthor name opened doors.  The desk sergeant made a few hasty phone calls, and in a few moments one of the detectives appeared before him.  The man was young to have made detective already, but his shabby suit and mid-day stubble indicated the detective life was already starting to grind him down.  It was really no wonder there were so many copes like Phelan out there, Lex mused.  It was the only way they could afford decent clothes.

   "Mr. Luthor, I'm Detective Harris.  Can I help you?"

   The polite tone didn't fool Lex—he knew the man was annoyed at being pulled away from an interrogation or a doughnut break or whatever he'd been up to.  But Lex also knew the value establishing a good rapport with this man if he was to be of any use to Dr. Hamilton.

   "Detective Harris, I'm a personal friend of Dr. Steven Hamilton and I was wondering if you had a few moments to discuss his case?"  Years of training at his father' knee had taught him how the right word, the right gesture, could be critical in moments like these.  He also knew how to make his questions sound like ones that brooked no refusal.

   The other man stiffened a bit.  "I'm afraid we cannot discuss this case with members of the public, Mr. Luthor, no matter what their relationship to the suspect is.  We are in the middle of an investigation…"

   "I understand that, Detective," Lex said smoothly.  "But I am concerned with the quality of legal advice Dr. Hamilton is receiving, as well as the publicity this case is already garnering."

     "You'll have to take that up with Hamilton himself," Harris said.  Lex was pleased to see the other man's reserve slipping away; beads of sweat were collecting on his unshaven upper lip.  Really, it was too easy.  Lex was tempted to suggest the detective read Sun Tzu's work on the importance of maintaining an aura of strength at all times.

     "All I can tell you is that we have a witness who places Dr. Hamilton at the scene of the crime, and that Hamilton has no alibi.  Now, if you'll excuse me, _Mr_. Luthor," and here Harris stretched the _mister_ out as a not so subtle gesture of contempt, "I need to be getting back to work."  

   "Of course, Detective Harris, and thank you for your time."

   Lex watched the other man disappear back into the bowels of the building with a polite smile.  Harris had told him what he wanted to know—the police felt they had sufficient evidence to pursue a case against Dr. Hamilton.  As he walked outside, Lex shook his head.  Clearly Hamilton had gotten himself into some sort of mess, and it was up to Lex to get him out of it.  After all, if news of Hamilton's work at Cadmus got out, Hamilton could quickly become a huge liability to LexCorp.

     Hamilton himself, however, proved uncooperative.

     "What the hell are you doing here?" were the first words out of the older man's mouth as he was led into one of the visiting rooms at the jail.

   "Nice to see you, too, Dr. Hamilton," Lex said with a smile.  "Please, sit down." He gestured to the chair on the other side of the scratched table from where he sat.  

   "Five minutes," said the guard, slamming the door behind them.

   Hamilton sat down a little awkwardly; both his hands were handcuffed in front of him.

   "I'm in no mood for a social call, Luthor," the doctor growled.

   "Then it's a good thing I haven't come on one, unless of course you like that flattering orange jumpsuit you're wearing."

    There was no response.

   "No?  Can't say I blame you.  Then I suggest you listen to me, and listen well."  Lex sat forward, leaning his Armani-clad elbows on the table.  "I want to help you, but I can't do that unless you drop the attitude."

   Dr. Hamilton still didn't respond, but he looked a trifle less sullen.

   "I've arranged for one of my lawyers to be here this afternoon…"

   "No."

   "No what?"

   Dr. Hamilton leaned forward in his chair, his dark eyes burning.  "No lawyer.  Not one of yours."

   "You can't be thinking of relying on the public defender, can you?  Some guy who barely passed the bar and has a hundred other cases on his desk?  I've spoken to the detective assigned to the case, and he seems to feel they have more than enough to put you on trial, including a witness who puts you at the scene."  Lex brushed an invisible piece of lint off his black sleeve.  "What were you doing at Metropolis University?"

   "That's my business."

   "No, it's my business."  Lex stood abruptly.  "You work for me, you're on my dime, so to speak.  I want to know why you were meeting with Dr. Roshenko.  Was it something to do with the meteor rocks?"

   When Dr. Hamilton didn't respond, Lex rubbed his forehead.  "You know, this is becoming quite tiresome, Dr. Hamilton.  I'll ask you again—was is something to do with the meteor rocks?"

   Hamilton seemed to shrink a little in his chair, but still held firm.  "I sought out the advice of an old friend, that's all," he offered.  "I've known Roshenko for years."  He passed a hand through his tangled hair.  "As for who saw me, it must have been McKay, but I doubt she had any idea why I was there."  The doctor rose.  "That's all I'm going to say.  I'll take my chances with the D.A.  Don't come here again."  Hamilton rapped sharply on the steel door, and the guard appeared to let him out.

   "I really am trying to help you, you know," Lex told him.

   Hamilton glanced back over his shoulder.  "You haven't asked me if I'm guilty or not."

   Lex shrugged.  "As far as I'm concerned, Dr. Hamilton, that is irrelevant."

   The guard led Hamilton back to his cell, and Lex was left alone in the little room to contemplate Dr. Hamilton's strange behavior.  

    As soon as he was back in his own car, speeding towards LuthorCorp's headquarters downtown, he flipped open his cell phone.

    "Good morning, Metropolis Public Defender's office.  How may I direct your call?"  a mechanical female voice answered.  

   "I would like to speak to Langston Carter, please."

   "I'm sorry, but Mr. Carter is in a closed session with the mayor today.  If you'll leave your name and number…"

   "Tell him Lex Luthor is calling," Lex interrupted.  "I'm certain he will want to speak with me."

   "One moment."

   There was a long pause, and then the voice came back on the line.

   "Mr. Luthor, go ahead please."

   Lex smiled.

   Hamilton had refused his help.  Lex was willing to accept that.  But Hamilton was also about to have the best public defender in Metropolis assigned to his case, courtesy of Langston Carter.  After all, it would be a shame if the papers found out how an upstanding public servant like Carter had paid for his luxurious new condo.

   Yes, that would be a real shame.       

!! 


	2. 2

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     "O.k., guys, what have we got?"  Chloe demanded.  She, Pete, and Clark were gathered around a desk in the offices of the Smallville High School _Torch_.   School had already let out and Clark knew his dad expected him home to get started on his chores pretty soon.

   That was one of the few good things about having superpowers—he could do his chores even if he got home hours late.  And it looked like he might.

   "Pete, you start."

   "O.k., well, I got Roshenko's obituary off the Internet—Russian, born in Minsk, served in the Red Army during World War II but escaped to the west in the 1950s.  Got his PhD here, two of them, actually: physics and molecular biology.  Published a ton of articles—the guy's supposed to be some kind of genius.  And get this."  Pete leaned forward excitedly.  "Dr. Hamilton worked in his lab in the 70s, and Roshenko helped him get the job at Metropolis U."

   "But if they were friends, what's Hamilton's motive to kill Roshenko?"  Clark mused.

   "Oh, come on, Clark, friends kill each other all the time," Chloe asserted.

   Clark and Pete just stared at her.

   "Well, they do," she insisted.  "Clark?"

   "The police seem to have a pretty solid case.  They're talking murder one."

   Pete shuddered.  "Wouldn't want to be in his shoes right now."

   "God, I'd give anything to be there!"  Chloe sighed.  "Maybe if I pulled some strings with the county clerk…"

   Clark frowned.  "You know the county clerk?"

   "No way, Chloe," Pete shook his head.  "They won't let you in.  I asked my mom about it, and she said they probably won't let in any public or press."

   "Do you think anyone would buy that I'm his daughter?"

   Clark just rolled his eyes in response.

   "Ok, ok, I get the hint."

    Clark cleared his throat.  "Listen, you guys, I don't think it's a good idea to get involved in this.  I mean, we're talking murder here."

   "Clark, after everything we've seen, how can you let this one get to you?"  Chloe protested.

   "I just think there's a difference between a meteor mutant and one guy strangling another in cold blood."

   "I gotta go with Clark on this one, Chloe," Pete said.  "The cops are working the case—I don't see what possible use we can be."

   "You don't, huh?  Well, I can see I'm just going to have to do this on my own."  Chloe hastily gathered up her stuff and headed for the door, back straight, head up.

   Pete and Clark looked at each other for a long moment, and both sighed.  "Chloe, wait up!"  they said in unison.

p

     The crime scene tape at Roshenko's lab came down four days after the crime, and since he couldn't (and wouldn't) visit Hamilton again Lex decided to try his luck at the lab.  It took him a while to find the right building (as a student here he'd spent very little of his time actually attending classes) but a blushing coed was quite happy to direct him in the right direction.  Thinking it was too bad he had other plans for the afternoon, Lex crossed the main quadrangle at the center of the university.  His father's new building loomed across one end, cutting off a great deal of the sunlight.  Quite a good metaphor for the man himself, actually.

   "Very subtle, Dad," Lex said to himself.  Thank god that monstrosity hadn't been here while he was a student—he'd never have lived it down.

   Roshenko's former lab turned out to be in the basement of one of the older science buildings.  A well-concealed staircase led down to a short hallway, ending in a pair of double doors that stood ajar.  Lex knocked on one of them, but there was no response.

   The killer, and then the police, had certainly done a number on the room—it looked like a tornado had passed through, followed by a dust storm of fingerprint powder.  He entered the room, careful not to fall over debris, and wondered why the university didn't have one of its cleaning crews at work.  He did hear movement at the far end, however, and upon investigation he found a young woman kneeling on the floor, carefully brushing was appeared to be the shattered remains of an entire rack of beakers into a dustpan.  She was so engrossed in what she was doing that she didn't hear his approach.

   "Excuse me."

   He'd tried to speak softly, but it sounded quite loud in the silence of the wrecked laboratory.  Startled, the woman's head snapped up and the dustpan slipped.  A shard of glass gouged her left palm.

   "Damn!"  She swore loudly, and jumped to her feet, holding the bleeding hand in her good one.  She was tall for a woman, with fair hair pulled back into a messy French twist, and she was very angry.  With him.

   "Didn't your parents tell you not to sneak up on people?"  The young woman stalked over to the nearest sink and ran the cut hand under some water.

   "I don't think it ever came up.  I am sorry, though."  He edged closer.  "Are you all right?"

   "I think so."  She pressed a paper towel to the wound, and then examined it closely.  "I don't think I'll need stitches or anything."

   She was a pretty girl, but there were dark circles under her blue eyes and she looked as if she'd been crying quite recently.  Lex decided she must be one of Roshenko's students.

   "I apologize again for the intrusion—this must be a difficult time.  I'm trying to find a Dr. McKay."  

   The girl's anger seemed to have faded to mild annoyance.  "Well, you found her, but I'm not a doctor yet."  She looked about her and bit her lower lip.  "Actually, I might never be if we can't salvage what's on these hard drives."  

   Lex was tempted to reach out and touch her before she managed to chew through her bottom lip.  She seemed so fixated on the damage around her she had forgotten he was there.  And her hand was bleeding again.

   "Here."  He took her left hand in his and she jumped again.  

   "You're bleeding," he said gently.  Over the sink he spotted a first aid kit, and drew down some gauze and a bandage.  He had spent enough time in labs himself to know how frequently accidents happened; the all-encompassing focus of the researcher required a stash of first aid supplies to be handy at all times.

   She let him bandage the hand, but she frowned, as if she knew what he was thinking.

   "Look, I'm not usually a nervous wreck like this," she apologized.  "Really, I'm not.  It's just—a lot has happened around here this last week."

   "So I see."  The last piece of adhesive tape went over the gauze, and he let go of her hand.  She immediately lifted it to her face, examining the job he'd done.  She seemed to find it adequate, because she didn't remove the makeshift bandage.  But, he couldn't help but notice, she didn't say 'thank you,' either.

    "My name is Lex Luthor."

   "So?"  Clearly she was still more preoccupied with her injury than his presence.  It was starting to annoy him—Lex didn't like being ignored.

   "I wanted to speak to you about Dr. Hamilton."

   It was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say.  Wariness immediately replaced the fatigue in her eyes.

   "Don't tell me you're his lawyer.  I didn't think any of the Luthors were into that."

   "We're not."  Although certainly he and his father both found lawyers useful enough to keep a whole fleet of them on retainer.  But no need to tell her that.  "I'm a friend of his, and I'm concerned about his arrest.

   "Yeah, it's all happened pretty quickly."

   Lex saw his opening, and jumped at it.  "I understand you're the one who saw him here shortly before Roshenko was killed."

   She began sorting a pile of papers she'd retrieved from the floor.  "Yes, he was in Roshenko's office a little bit past midnight.  The coroner," and here she swallowed hard, "says the doctor died around two a.m."

   Almost two hours unaccounted for.  Lex was beginning to feel a bit better about Hamilton's case.  "How did you know it was Dr. Hamilton?  I mean, had the two of you met before?"

   She looked at him like he was an idiot.  "Everyone in the science division knows who Dr. Hamilton is.  The U ordered him never to return to campus.  He cost them a lot of money, you know."

   So clearly she knew the truth behind Hamilton's dismissal, that it wasn't his meteor theories that had gotten him fired.

   "Hush money?"  Lex suggested.  "To keep those girls quiet?"

   Ms. McKay shrugged.  "I guess. Before my time."  

   "So you never actually met him."

   "I didn't say that.  We met once, years ago."

   "The two of you were…friends?"

   He had to hand it to the girl, she was sharp—she understood his insinuation instantly.

   "Not friends in the way you're implying."  Her mouth twisted into a wry smile.  "Emil introduced us."

   "And who is Emil?"

   Ms. McKay laid aside her papers, and looked him in the eye.  Normally when women gave him their undivided attention it meant they were flirting with him, but something in this woman's expression told him sex was the last thing on her mind just now.

   "I thought you said Dr. Hamilton is a friend of yours."

   Lex had screwed up somewhere; he just wasn't sure where.  "He is."

   Ms. McKay folded her arms across her chest and fixed him with her gaze again.  "He's your friend, but you don't know his son's name?"

   Ah.  That was where Lex had screwed up.  He thought about lying again, but had the uncomfortable feeling the girl would see right though him if he did.  She was an odd mixture of contrasts—a scholar with what were clearly sharp skills of perception.  He would have to watch his step around her.

   So Lex told the truth.  "He never mentioned a son."

   That seemed to satisfy her, because she turned away and went back to sorting papers.  "Doesn't surprise me—they don't speak.  I think the day Emil introduced me may have been the last day they saw each other.  Emil was doing his grad work at Central City while I was an undergrad.  Directed my senior thesis.  Smart guy."

   Ms McKay was turning out to be a veritable font of information.  

   "If you don't mind me asking, why isn't Emil Hamilton here?"

   She sighed.  "Because I don't think he knows about his father's arrest.  Emil's been working for the Pentagon—no one's heard from him in months.  I tried to get them to give him a message, but I got the bureaucratic run around.  That place has so many layers of secrecy even _they_ may not know where he is."  

     Lex came to stand next to her, watching as she rifled through what appeared to be reams of data.  "What does Emil do?  Mineralogy, like his father?"

   She shook her head.  "Molecular chemistry."     

   It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her about anyone else who might have wanted to harm Roshenko when the double doors swung open again.  It was Detective Harris, still wearing the same brown coat Lex had seen him in before.  He did not look happy to see Lex.

   "Detective Harris, hello," Ms. McKay said, covering the awkward silence in the room.

   "Angela," the detective nodded.  "Mr. Luthor."

   "Please, call me Lex," he offered, before turning to the girl next to him.  "And may I call you Angela?"

   She hadn't offered her first name during their previous conversation, but Lex was never one to miss an opportunity.  And the name suited her, really.  With her fair hair and willowy figure she could pass for one of the daughters of Metropolis' elite, but then she would have to have a trendy name like Tiffany or Caitlin.  Angela seemed much more…practical than that.

   And, of course, the detective already felt at liberty to use her first name.  That explained a great deal of the hostility Lex sensed: clearly the good detective felt Lex was poaching on his territory.  Although judging from her judicious use of the detective's last name, Angela had no intention of humoring whatever romantic visions Harris entertained.  

   "I'm sorry, have the two of you met?"  she asked.

   Lex spoke up before the detective could.  "I made a few inquires into Dr. Hamilton's case last week.  Detective Harris was most helpful."

   "And why are you here, Mr. Luthor?"

   "Just seeing if I can be of any assistance to Ms. McKay in restoring the laboratory."

   Angela shot him an odd look, but remained silent.

   "My family prides itself on supporting the research objectives of this university," Lex said smoothly.  "It would be a great loss to the scientific community if the late doctor's work was not carried on."

   "According to Dean Carroll, insurance will cover most of the damage," the detective fairly growled.  

   "How can I help you, Detective Harris?"  There is was again.  Lex almost felt sorry for the man.  He had no idea Angela McKay was subtly trying to shoot him down. 

   "We need whatever Dr. Roshenko had been working on for the last few months.  We've already cleaned out the files in his office."  Harris eyes the row of mutilated computers.  "Do you know which machine he stored his data on?"

   Angela pointed to the smallest one, nearly an antique by computing standards.  "That one.  It only runs MS DOS, though."  She shrugged apologetically, as if excusing her mentor's lack of technological savvy.  "He was still using a typewriter when I came here."

   While Harris unplugged the hard drive to take it with him, Lex tried to think of a safe way to return to the subject of Hamilton without Harris trying to take his head off.  Fortunately, it was Angela who stepped into the breech.

   "Detective Harris, I wouldn't presume to tell you your business, but I have to say I'm a little concerned about the way this investigation is going."

   "Really?  How so?"

   "I just don't think Dr. Hamilton would do something like this.  And even if he had a reason to kill Dr. Roshenko, why destroy the lab?  It doesn't make sense."

   Harris gave her an indulgent smile.  "That's what we're hoping the information on this hard drive will clear up.  Apparently that night was not Dr. Hamilton's first visit here.  He and Dr. Roshenko appear to have been collaborating on something for the past several months, something that required the two to met in secret."

   For a moment the young women looked as if she'd been slapped in the face.  Startled.  Hurt.  "No way." Angela shook her head defiantly.  "Dr. Roshenko didn't keep secrets from me.  I would have known about it."

   "Can you be certain of that?"  Harris tucked the computer drive under his arm.  "How much do you really know about Evgeny Roshenko, Angela?"  He then turned his attention back to Lex.  "And I hope I won't need to tell you, Mr. Luthor, what can happen when someone impedes a police investigation."  With that parting shot, he left.

   "He knows something he's not telling us," Angela murmured, more to herself than to Lex.  "This doesn't look good for Dr. Hamilton."

    Lex could only nod.  _Damn_ Hamilton!  Lex had warned him about involving anyone else in the work at Cadmus labs.  All the money, all the equipment Lex had funneled out of his father's company to fund Hamilton's research, and he'd still felt the need to involve a third party?  Without telling Lex about it?  Clearly once Hamilton was out of jail Lex would have to have a serious conversation with him about trust, and what happened when you disobeyed a Luthor.

      Angela McKay was staring at him again with that oddly penetrative expression.  "Well?"

   Still fuming at Hamilton's perfidy, Lex clamped down on his temper.  "Well, what?"

     "Any other bright ideas?  Because if you really want to help Hamilton it looks like you may be running out of time."

    Lex was silent for a moment, debating how much he should tell McKay.  On the one hand the last thing he needed was someone tagging along with him, trying to play Nora to his Nick.  He wasn't Chloe Sullivan--he preferred working alone, especially when the situation was a sensitive one.  On the other hand, Angela was positioned to provide him with a good deal of information.  And while it was obvious she didn't completely buy his cover story about being a friend of Hamilton, she also seemed inclined to believe the man was innocent.  

   "Don't forget, I have a stake in this, too," she added, once again appearing to read his thoughts.

   "Do you have copies of Roshenko's data?"  he asked.

   "Of course, I do."  Angela stressed the "I," clearly indicating she would not be willing to share it with him.

   He smiled.  "I notice you didn't tell Harris you had it."

   "He didn't ask."

   "Take a look at it and see if you can find anything that might have connected his work with Hamilton's."

   She frowned.  "I thought you were trying to prove they _hadn't_ been working together."

   Careful, Lex—he'd nearly slipped up again.

    "And the best way to prove that is by examining Roshenko's data."

   Angela gave him a skeptical look, but finally nodded.  "I'll see what I can find."  She glanced around her ruined empire again.  "Not much else I can do here, anyway."

   Lex gave her his card, one of the new ones with the LexCorp logo on it, but wrote his cell phone number on the back.

   "How can I reach you?"

     "Oh," she waved a hand distractedly, "I'm always here."

   "Right.  Thank you for your help."

   "Um hum," she said absently.  Clearly she'd turned her mind back to other issues, once again dismissing him from her mind before he'd actually left the room.

    As Lex walked back to his car he had the odd feeling he was being watched, but it was early afternoon and the quad was nearly deserted.  He shook it off.  Hardly time to get paranoid—he still had one more stop to make before he could head back to Smallville.  Cadmus Labs.

p

      Clark had spent the afternoon in the local library, trying to track down some of the late Dr. Roshenko's work.  He'd finally been able to pull a couple of articles off the Internet, but now, as he studied them, sitting in his loft, he had to admit most of it was over his head.

   "Hey, Clark," Chloe greeted him as she bounded up the stairs.  "How'd the research trip go?"  Her hair stuck out at odd angles, as if she'd been running her hands through it repeatedly, and her blouse was buttoned wrong, but she looked happier than Clark had seen her in awhile.  Nothing made Chloe happier than having a story to investigate.

   "I got a couple of articles—there's a lot of things here Hamilton might have been interested in.  Matter, antimatter, molecular breakdown…"

   Chloe picked up the pile of papers and thumbed through it.  "Pretty exciting stuff compared to rocks.  No wonder Hamilton wanted to work with Roshenko.  I've had Pete doing some more digging into the late doctor's life, but we can't go back any farther than 1953 without getting on a plane to Moscow."  Even as she said this, though, she was grinning.

   "Chloe, what's up?  You've got that look again."

   "Well," and here Chloe paused to reach into her bag, "I just happen to have here a copy of a paper Hamilton and Roshenko collaborated on in 1976.  Never published."  Chloe pushed him over so she could sit next to him on the battered sofa.  Clark read over her shoulder.

   "'The Possible Implications of Extraterrestrial Rocks for Molecular Research.'  I'm impressed."  Chloe's sources had always been better than his.

   "What can I say?" she smiled proudly.

   "So Hamilton must have written this after he got access to the Apollo moon rocks."

   "Yeah, and since it was never published I'm guessing NASA wasn't too happy with it.  It's a lot of speculation about how rocks from different planets might operate differently on a molecular level than rocks on earth."

   "Wow.  Sort of a prequel for his meteorite theories."

   "Exactly, only in '76 he didn't have any of the hard data to back it up."

   Clark was thoughtful for a moment.  "Do you think he has it now?"

   Chloe shrugged.  "Could be.  I mean, why else go to his old mentor unless he needed help proving something?"

   Leaning back on a pillow made from an old Crow jersey, Clark shook his head.

   "I don't know, Chloe, this is still really speculative.  We don't know that's why Hamilton was in Metropolis."   

     "But it makes perfect sense, Clark."  As usual, Chloe didn't relish having one of her theories poked full of holes.  "I'll bet Hamilton and Roshenko have been working on this for awhile.  Maybe one of them got too pushy, or maybe Roshenko didn't want to share credit.  After all, he's a big name in the science game.  Hamilton's not even a footnote anymore."

   "Anything more on what evidence the police have?"  

   "No, but I'm working on it, Clark.  The _Planet_ will have good coverage of the arraignment; we'll know more then.  Unless maybe their online coverage is already up.  I'll have to check on that."

   "Clark?"  His mother's voice carried up the stairs.  "Dinner."

   "Oh, man, is it that late?"  Chloe glanced at her watch.

   "Want to stay?"

   Chloe shook her head.  "No, thanks.  Tuesday night's pizza night at my house, and if I don't get there early enough dad orders anchovies.  Yuck."

   Clark walked Chloe out to her car, and then went in to wash up.

   "Chloe looks happy," his mother commented as she pulled a casserole out of the oven.

   "She's got a new story to work on."

   Martha Kent eyed him wisely.  "You mean the three of you have a new story to work on," she corrected.

   "Something like that, yeah."

   Clark's father came in from the back porch.  "What's the story?"

   "I'll explain over dinner."

   So while the family ate Clark explained what had been happening, from the time they'd heard of Hamilton's arrest to Chloe's assertion that his meteorite research might have played a role in Dr. Roshenko's death.

   "What do you guys think?  Maybe Hamilton really knows something."  Clark found the notion so disturbing he pushed away his third helping, only half eaten.

   "The town's convinced Hamilton's a crackpot, son," Jonathan Kent said gently.  "From what Chloe's saying it sound likes most of the scientific community thinks so as well."

   "It's doubtful anyone takes anything he says seriously," Martha agreed.

   "But maybe that's exactly why he teamed up with Roshenko," Clark argued.  "To give him some credibility.  So people would listen."

   His mother gave his father one of her long looks.

   "Listen, Clark, what matters right now is that Hamilton has been arrested for committing a crime," Jonathan said.  "The courts will be interested in finding out the truth, yes.  But only so far as it may have led to this other man's death."

     "And I definitely think," he added, "this is not the kind of situation that you and Chloe should get involved in.  Even if Hamilton isn't guilty, the fact remains someone killed this Dr….Roshenko."

   "Your father's right, Clark.  I think you should suggest to Chloe that you both back off and let the police do their jobs.  She'll listen to you."

   Clark felt a bit better after talking to his parents, but as he walked to the bus stop the next morning he still worried.  For a moment he had a vision of Smallville being inundated with scientists and tourists, all anxious to see Hamilton's meteorite rocks.  It would be the first few months after the meteor strike all over again, only worse, because this time there would be Hamilton's work to back it up.  People would come from miles around to see the freaky rocks and the freaky things they could do…and then how long would it be before someone found out about the freaky kid?

   He was so engrossed in this scenario that he didn't hear the expensive car draw to a halt on the road beside him.  It wasn't until the passenger window rolled down and a familiar voice hailed him that he snapped out of his reverie.

   "Hi, Lex.  Didn't hear you."

   "Doesn't surprise me.  You looked like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders.  Want a ride to school?"

   "Sure."  Clark opened the door and slung his backpack on the car's floor.  As usual he felt a little awkward sitting on the Jaguar's leather seat, as if he might scratch the upholstery or the real wood dash.  Lex had always been pretty good about not letting the differences in their respective statuses get in the way of friendship, but sometimes Clark was reminded sharply about who were the haves and who were the have-nots in Smallville.  This was definitely one of those times.

   "Clark, you're still brooding," Lex said after they had driven in silence for a few minutes.

   "Sorry.  Guess I'm just not myself this morning."

   "I swung by your house, but your mom said I'd just missed you.  I wanted to talk to you about something, Clark."

   "O.k."  Clark was a little surprised—even though he counted Lex among his closest friends Lex rarely volunteered information of any kind.

   "I wanted you to know that I offered Dr. Steven Hamilton my help in paying for his defense.  I thought you should hear it from me first."

   "Oh."  Clark digested this bit of news for a moment, watching the fields whiz by, then suddenly give way to storefronts.  "I didn't think you knew him."

   "I know _of _him, Clark—this town's not that big.  The guy's up for capital murder and I don't exactly see Smallville rushing to his defense."

    "Yeah, well, most people don't think too highly of him," Clark shrugged.  

   "Yourself included?"  Lex asked.  When Clark didn't respond, he added, "Most people don't think too highly of me either."

   "C'mon, Lex, don't bring that up again.  Things are changing.  Keeping Plant Three open and saving all those jobs has really changed a lot of people's minds about you," Clark said earnestly.   

   "Maybe, maybe not."  Lex tapped his gloved fingers against the steering wheel for a few moments.  "Anyway, I felt it was the right thing to do.  Not that it matters—he turned me down flat."

   "Really?"  Clark couldn't help but feel relieved.  The last thing he needed was Lex (tenacious, stubborn Lex) involved in this mess.  "I'd think he'd jump at the chance to get a better lawyer."

   "So did I, but he didn't."  Lex sighed.  "It looks pretty grim, too—a witness places him at the scene, and his fingerprints were all over Roshenko's lab."

   "I hadn't heard about the prints."

   "Chloe's slipping, huh?"  Lex laughed.  "It's in this morning's paper.  But in all seriousness, Clark, I think you should warn Chloe to stay out of this one.  I think this whole thing is going to get worse before it gets better.  She'll listen to you."

   "You're the second person in twenty four hours to say that to me," Clark said absently.  "Why does everyone assume my word carries some kind of special weight with Chloe?"

     The Jag pulled up to the curb across the street from the high school.  "She'll listen to you, Clark," Lex said again.

   Clark nodded.  "I'll try."  And then he grinned.  "Thanks for the ride, Lex.  And I'll be sure to tell my mom the two of you are starting to think alike."

   Lex's laugh was nearly drowned out as he gunned the engine, but Clark could tell he found the idea that he was thinking like Martha Kent pretty funny.

p

     Angela's phone rang, and as she dove for it she managed to knock over a stack of term papers on her desk.  It had been that kind of a day.

   "Hello?"

   "Angela, Lex Luthor here."

   "Oh."

   "You sound surprised."

   She managed to retrieve most of the papers and stuffed them unceremoniously in a drawer.

   "I hadn't really expected to hear from you again."  Realizing that sounded a little rude, she amended herself.  "How can I help you, Mr. Luthor?"

   "Call me Lex, please.  How's the reconstruction of the lab going?"

   He'd called her discuss the lab?  God, this guy was strange.

   "A couple of other grad students came in to help sweep up the rest of the broken glass, and the janitor lent his expertise with a broom so we could get the last of the fingerprint dust off the floors and counters.  Dean Carroll has seen to it that the hard drives were removed and sent to the university's main computer lab.  The techs are trying to salvage the information on them."  

   "Yes, it would be a shame if all that data was lost.  By the way, I've been reading your work.  Very impressive."

   "I really don't think two articles constitutes a body of work, but thank you, I guess."  Even though he'd been perfectly polite at their first meeting, something about this guy really got her back up.  

   "Don't sell yourself short, Angela.  I think your argument about the need to fully understand the mechanics of cellular mutation before we can effectively search for cures is quite insightful."  There was a pause.  "Is that what Dr. Roshenko was working on as well?"

   "Not exactly.  He wanted to prove you can apply mathematical formulas to all forms of cellular behavior.  That mainly meant running test after test after test to accumulate enough data.  Hence the snowstorm of paper around here."

   "I see.  Angela, I must admit I have an ulterior motive for calling you."

   Surprise, surprise.  "I didn't think you just wanted a friendly chat."

   "Do you know where Smallville is?"

   "Um, not really, no.  Actually, I've never heard of it."

   He laughed.  "Most people haven't, but it's where I lived now.  Do you think you could find the time to come and see me?" 

   She looked guiltily at her "in" box.  The president of the university had asked her to take over Roshenko's classes in mid-semester, and her workload had suddenly doubled.  Not to mention the problems with the lab. On top of the mess, the mass spectrometer readings were all out of whack; she was really afraid she'd have to get it repaired.  There was no money in the budget for that…

   He seemed to sense her hesitation.  "I know you must be very busy, but I promise it will be worth your while."

   Angela still hesitated.  She'd met guys like him before, who thought that money and charm would be enough get other people to do anything they wanted.  The sad thing was, people—women especially—usually fell for it.  She didn't intend to be one of them.

   "I have papers to grade…"

   "It's about Dr. Hamilton."

   Hamilton again.  She shut her eyes, unintentionally squeezing the phone tighter in her hand.  In a moment she'd made up her mind.

   "O.k., tell me again where I'm going?"

/html   

!! 


	3. 3

html

     Fiddling with the radio dial, Angela McKay was distressed to realize she had passed out of range of any of the Metropolis radio stations.  All she could seem to pick up was country western and some sort of local news program.  What was it about rural areas and poor music selection?  She could probably graph the exact correlation between population and the availability of farmer's almanac readings and banjo music.

     She had done the best she could to restore Dr. Roshenko's lab to proper working order.  Now only the monitors remained behind until there was room in the dumpster, their shattered screens gaping like mouths full of teeth.  She shuttered a bit just thinking about them.  Angela had never been a fanciful kind of person, but lately she found herself jumping at shadows and small noises.  She was starting to wonder if she'd ever really be able to work in the lab again.  At least having gone through her hard copies of Roshenko's notes she knew there was still enough information to work into her doctoral dissertation when the time came.  She'd been counting on the doc to walk her through that nightmare of paperwork; now she wasn't sure she could go it alone.  

   To make matters worse she'd gotten a call that afternoon from the county coroner—they were going to release Roshenko's body the next day, and what did she want done with it?  Fortunately the Dean had been in the room and taken over the call, assuring the people on the other end that the university would handle all the arrangements and expenses.

   Then he had gently patted her hand and asked her to leave it all to him.  Angela had to admit she had never cared much for James Carroll—he of the expensive shirts and capped teeth, who had a reputation for caring far more about the University's bottom line than the welfare of its faculty and students.  But he'd been nothing but helpful lately, even trying to get her to take a sabbatical until the lab could be restored.  Of course she'd refused, but she was immensely relieved to not have to plan a funeral.  She didn't have enough family to fill a phone booth, so her experience in dealing with situations like this was practically nil.

     It was nice to just drive, though—she couldn't remember the last time she had gone anywhere, although it was probably her Christmas trip back to Central City to see her mother.  And that was just trading one city for another.  Smallville, however, was in the middle of nowhere.  Housing developments periodically dotted either side of the highway.   Personally she though someone would have to be nuts to commute that distance—it took three hours to get from Metropolis to Smallville if one was inclined to obey the speed limit.  And, given the radio situation, a dull three-hour drive it was.

     Angela did pass through the town itself, following the directions Lex Luthor had given her, but she didn't see much.  It was well after dinnertime, and it looked like Smallville had rolled up its streets for the evening.  She'd been a city kid all her life—she couldn't imagine what it must be like to grow up in a place like this.  After town the road passed though acres of fields.  Corn?  Wheat?  What did people grow in Kansas, anyway?  Out here the houses were set so far off the road all that was immediately visible were the mailboxes, and maybe a few lighted windows gleaming in the distance.

   She thought for a moment she'd missed the turnoff, but she finally saw it off to the right where Luthor had said it would be.  A massive iron gate blocked the road, but before she could worry about how to open it, it opened for her.  The road then passed through an alley of trees, the branches meeting overhead and making things seem even darker.  As she stopped her vintage Mustang in what appeared to be a driveway (wider than her apartment), she leaned forward and peered up through the windshield at the house in front of her.

   "You have got to be kidding," she murmured.

   The house was huge; she wondered if in daylight it would be visible from the road.  Doubtful.  The trees must have been placed here intentionally, as a screen, because the rest of the farmland she had seen in the area was cleared.  The people who lived in this house probably didn't do much farming.  It looked more like the kind of place from which you'd ride forth to do battle.  It even had a turret.  Good god.  Well, it certainly explained the Luthor Business Building; clearly when this family went in for architecture, it did so on a massive scale.

   Not one to be daunted by anything, Angela grabbed her bag and went up to the front door, which was opened by an older woman in a rather dowdy sweater set.  Lex's mom?  Did these people actually open their own front doors?

   "Good evening, Miss McKay. Please come in—Mr. Luthor is waiting for you in his study."

  Ah ha.  A housekeeper, or maybe a butler.  Were there female butlers?  If so, what would they be called?  Butleresses?  She thought of asking the woman as they walked down a series of hallways, but somehow she didn't think she would be amused by the question.

    It seemed to be taking a long time to get wherever they were going; she sort of wished she had thought to bring some breadcrumbs to drop so she could find her way back to the front door.  Then again, maybe Brunhilde here would be around to show her out.

   Angela still didn't quite know why she had bothered to drive all the way out here on a weekday night.  She hadn't bought Luthor's story about Hamilton, and she certainly didn't need any more aggravation at this point in her life.

   Finally the woman opened a pair of double doors and let her into a large room.  This one was open to the second floor, where there was some sort of gallery at one end.  A fireplace big enough to heat a small third world country made it warm, and she had to admit the stained glass windows, in shades of red and purple, must be really pretty in daylight.

    "Miss McKay to see you, Mr. Luthor."  Angela didn't bother to try to explain to this woman the anti-feminist implications of using "Miss" instead of "Ms."; she just let it slide.

   Luthor himself came around the desk to greet her.  "Angela, thank you for coming on such short notice."  Brunhilde closed the doors as she left the room, and Angela eyed him suspiciously.

   "Let's just say I don't like getting cryptic messages that call for me driving three hours out of my way," she said stiffly.  She still wasn't sure she liked this man.  Maybe it was all the money, or maybe it was the way he had expected her to drop everything and come and see him when he'd called.  But then she'd done exactly that, so whose fault was it, really?

   "Of course," he said soothingly.  "Would you like something to drink?  Coffee?  Or something stronger?" 

   "Nothing, thank you."  She felt awkward as hell being here.  She should have changed, worn a dress or something.  And a tiara.  Not that she owned either one.

   "You don't mind if I indulge, do you?"  He held up a crystal decanter.

   "No."

   For want of anything better to do Angela set down her bag as he poured himself a drink.  It smelled like scotch to her.  Very expensive scotch.  She wished she wasn't driving home.

   "You said on the phone you had something for me."

   "I do."  He took a sip of his drink and then went around to the other side of the enormous desk where an expensive laptop sat.  With a small click the CD-ROM drive opened, and he pulled out a disk.  He held it out to her with an enigmatic smile.  She was reminded of the illustration of the Cheshire cat in one of her childhood picture books.  Angela prided herself on being able to figure people out, but she couldn't figure this guy out at all.  First he showed up out of the blue, asking for her help; then she hadn't heard from him for days; and then he called her insisting she meet him in a big house in the middle of nowhere.

   Definitely suspicious.  She cautiously took the disk in her hand.  There was nothing written on its shiny surface.

   "What is it?"

    "Dr. Hamilton's latest research."

   She sucked in a sharp breath, glancing up from the disk.  "Where did you get it?"

   He smiled again.  Funny how his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.  "Long story."

   "Yeah, I'll bet it is."  Still carefully holding the edges of the disk, she sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.  "Ok, I'll bite—what's on it?"

   "_That _is what I need your help figuring out, Angela."

   She gave him back the disk and he slipped it into the computer.  Then he turned the laptop to show her the long lists of numbers scrolling down the screen.  She watched them roll by in silence for a few moments, trying to process what she was seeing.

   "It looks like Dr. Hamilton has been compiling data he's collected in experiments on those meteor rocks he likes so much."

   She looked up at him, surprised.  There was no text in the file; only numbers.  "How do you know that?"

   "I've run numerous experiments of my own in the past.  You'll notice that the numbers are grouped together, both horizontally and vertically, as if each is from a distinct event, and a distinct date."

   O.k. he was right—that was exactly what it looked like to her, too.  

   "Give me a little credit, Angela," he chided.

   "Sorry," she said, still watching the numbers roll by.  "There's nothing else?  No indicators as to what he's trying to do with all this data?"

   "Afraid not.  But Hamilton wouldn't have saved all of it without purpose.  He's trying to lay something out here—I'm just not sure what that is."

   "And you want me to try and figure it out."

   "Well, I don't say this very often, but you do have more experience with this sort of thing than I do."  He gestured for her to come around to his side of the desk, and he offered her the extremely comfortable leather office chair there.  Lex then carefully placed the laptop back in front of her.  As he did she caught a whiff of some sort of very expensive, very subtle cologne.  He smelled fantastic.  The thought caught her off-guard.  Although she wouldn't exactly describe him as handsome, there was certainly something about him.  An aura, her mother would call it.  

  _Get a grip, Angela_, she warned herself.  _No more complications, remember?_

   Lots of men had told her she was attractive, and she'd never hurt for male attention.  Frankly, most of the time such attention was a nuisance, a distraction from her work.  But Luthor struck her one of those guys who'd prefer party girls with big boobs and tiny brains.  Women who wouldn't challenge his authority.  Definitely not her.

    She turned her attention to the numbers in front of her.  Somehow she sensed it would be futile to waste any more time puzzling over the enigma that was Lex Luthor.  Much better to work on a problem she actually had a shot at solving.

   Actually, working with Hamilton's data was an education in itself—it told her a lot about the man.  He'd apparently been building up layer after layer of data.  She'd heard about his obsession with meteorites, specifically the meteorites that had fallen on Smallville some years before—it was still a punch line at every faculty cocktail party.  Angela couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the guy: she, too, was obsessed with her work, but no one had ever openly mocked what she was doing.  But then it was one thing to explore how mutations at the molecular level affected human disease; it was another to argue that simple exposure to a rock from space could dramatically alter human physiology.    

   While she worked she gave Lex copies of Dr. Roshenko's notes to read; she hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary in them, but at least reading them kept him quiet.  And after all, he had shared Hamilton's data with her.  She didn't even want to think about how he might have gotten that disk.  Hopefully the ends would justify the means.

   As the hours ticked by, however, she remained no closer to a solution.  She ran the numbers backwards, forwards, randomly, searching for any sort of pattern.  There just didn't seem to be one.  But there had to be.  After a while even Lex got bored, and offered her one of the guest rooms for the night, suggesting they start over in the morning.  She just waved him off.

   There had to be a pattern.  If Dr. Hamilton was even half the scientist he had once been, there would be.  She just had to find it.

   Angela wasn't sure how long she sat there by herself, but the fire burned down and the numbers started to dance in front of her eyes.  She did take a short nap on one of the couches, but her mind was racing so fast she couldn't sleep for long.

   There was something missing, something that had yet to be nudged into her consciousness. 

   It wasn't until close to dawn, however, that the last piece of the puzzled jarred loose from her tired brain.  She was staring at the screen, thinking about Dr. Roshenko: the white hair that would never stay combed; the bagels he sometimes brought her when they both came in early.  She wasn't crying anymore, but her heart ached.  She still half expected him to show up for work, admitting that it had all been a joke.

     _How much do you really know about Evgeny Roshenko?_ Detective Harris had asked.

   Well, she knew he was a perfectionist with his work, if not his physical appearance.  He was the kind of man who would run an experiment over and over, until even she was ready to scream with frustration, to eliminate every last possible variable.  And he was methodical.  Oh, absolutely methodical.  He was the one who had taught her to always look for the pattern.  Even mutations had a pattern, he had argued, if you just knew how to find it.

   Maybe even meteorite mutations? 

   That thought snapped her back to the present.  After all, that was what had everyone stumped.  Why, after all these years, would Hamilton return to his old teacher?  What did Roshenko do better than anyone else?

   Find patterns in what appeared to be random.

   Angela went back to the notes she had brought for Luthor to read.  As before, nothing leapt out at her.  A lot of it was just musings, scribbled notes, rows of numbers, logarithms.  

   She tried three different logarithms without success before she stumbled on the right one.  The one that made Hamilton's data take shape.

   "Wow."

   Lex found her still sitting there when he came downstairs.  

   "Angela, it's six a.m.—have you been up all night?"

   "I took a nap," she responded defensively.  "Look at this."

   And this time she was the one who showed him the rows of numbers on the screen.

   "There's a pattern."

   "Yes."  Angela hastily pointed out the placed where numbers consistently repeated themselves.  "I think Hamilton suspected that, on the molecular level, there was a pattern to the mutations the meteor rocks produced.  He just didn't know how to describe it mathematically, in a way another scientist could understand and repeat.  Mineralogists aren't trained to do that."

   Lex nodded.  "That's why he needed Roshenko."

   "Maybe Roshenko felt sorry for Hamilton, or maybe he recognized the pattern straight off—his notes don't say."

   "But this…" Lex was thoughtful, pacing a bit until he reached the fireplace.  "This is something the scientific community could take seriously."

   "Well, at the very least it's highly suggestive.  It's certainly not definitive, and I'll bet it would freak out a lot of people.  I mean," Angela rubbed her tired eyes, "according to his data these rocks are potentially dangerous.  A mutagen unlike anything seen before, and one that might produce radically different results on different subjects.  It flies in the face of most of what we think we know about human biology."  She rested her chin in her hand.  "We need to call Detective Harris."

   "Why?"

   "Why?"  Angela repeatedly blankly.  He looked so casual, standing there stirring the ashes from last night's fire, as if he hadn't a care in the world.  "Excuse me, but are you seeing the same thing I am?  This kind of shoots down their case—Hamilton's hardly going to kill the guy who's given him what he's been searching for all these years."  She looked at the computer screen again.  The initial buzz of discovery was starting to wear off, and her head hurt.  All those years.  It was sad, really.

   Lex brushed off his hands.  "But you don't think it's conclusive."

   "O.k., maybe not conclusive by _my_ standards," she hedged.   "But it still puts Hamilton several giant steps ahead of where he was."

   "And you're going to tell Harris you withheld Roshenko's notes from him?"  Lex said skeptically.

   God, she could really strangle him!  "Might I remind you, _you_ were the one who called _me_.  And I didn't withhold anything—Harris has got his own copies.  Only without Hamilton's data it doesn't mean anything.  You're the one that withheld that." She usually wasn't this slow on the uptake, but she'd been up all night.  "Oh."

   "Exactly."

   Angela rubbed her eyes again.     

   "It seems we're at a bit of an impasse."  Lex sat down in front of her again.  "I can assure you I came by those notes legitimately, but I don't think Harris will believe that."

   "I'm not sure _I_ believe that," she grumbled.  

   "You're very cynical, aren't you?"

   "I could say the same thing about you."  Angela thought for a moment.  "O.k., so what if I just casually suggest they cross-check Roshenko's work with some of Hamilton's?  They've got the entire contents of Roshenko's office, his computer—they must be thinking along the same lines we were."

   "You think more highly of the Metropolis police department than I do.  Believe me, Angela, they aren't going to spend any more time thinking about this than they absolutely have to.  Odds are they haven't bothered to examine anything the late doctor might have written."

    "So you're saying we're back to square one."

   "Not exactly.  Let me speak to Hamilton again.  He still needs to explain what you saw them arguing about, and why his prints were all over the lab."

   They looked at each other in silence.  Angela had that odd feeling again—the one that said he wasn't telling her everything he knew.  The problem was, his face was perfectly composed.  So he was either a very skilled liar, or he was telling the truth.  She really had no way of knowing, but she was now convinced Hamilton was innocent.  Which meant whoever _had_ killed Dr. Roshenko was still out there.  And she intended to do something about it.

   "Fine."  Angela saved the modified data in a new file, and turned off the computer.  "But if you don't come up with something pretty soon I'm going to try to convince the police to give the files another look.  Maybe they'll surprise us.  You never know."

   Lex smiled at her, and this time it appeared to be genuine; it actually reached his eyes.  "No, I suppose you don't."

p

     Lex watched from the window as Angela's car disappeared through the front gate.  He had offered her breakfast, but she had refused, saying she needed to get back to Metropolis.  Back to work, no doubt—he knew from the background check he'd ordered that there was no husband or current boyfriend who'd be expecting her home.

   It was too bad, really—she would have been a diverting addition to the gloomy dining room.  And she had good taste in cars.  Lex smiled ruefully.  He'd had her here all night, and he'd been a perfect gentleman.  Maybe he really had turned over a new leaf.

   After breakfast he went back to his library.  Hamilton's disk he placed in a special compartment built into the side of his custom-made desk.  If there was one thing at which Luthors excelled it was devising places to hide things.  The house had so many hidden rooms and false panels Lex hadn't found them all yet.

   But then Luthors possessed a myriad of unique skills.  He sat down in his chair and pressed the speed dial button on his phone.

   Lex put his feet up and opened a bottle of water.

   "Senatori here."

   "Good morning, Dominic."

   The air on the line became frosty.  Lex was surprised the speaker didn't freeze over.

   "Lex."

   "I have a job for you, Dominic," he smiled.

   "I'm afraid this isn't a good time, Lex."  Dominic's British accent grew even more pronounced.  "I am taking a copy of the latest quarterly figures to your father this afternoon."

     "I don't think that's a good idea," Lex cautioned.  "You know what his doctors said—no work.  I'd hate to think you were slowing my father's recovery."

   Lex could almost _hear_ Dominic's teeth grinding.

   "Your father specifically requested…"

   "You're not working for my father," Lex corrected.  "You're working for me.  Isn't that so?"

   The other man remained silent.  No doubt he was wondering how a man with an Oxford education and the bluest of blood had ended up in a subordinate position to Lionel Luthor's upstart brat.  Lex knew perfectly well Dominic bided his time at LuthorCorp in the hopes that Lionel would acknowledge his talent and place him a position of real power.  Which just demonstrated how little Senatori understood his employer—to Lionel, blood ties were everything.  Dominic would never be anything but a pretender to the throne.

     "Dominic, last year when we ran into trouble with the deal in Panama—what was the name of the state department official who smoothed things over for us?"

   "Abermarle."

   Lex nodded to himself.  Jack Abermarle, that was it. Lex hadn't been directly involved, but from what he'd heard Abermarle had demanded quite a bit of company stock before he was willing to convince the State Department LuthorCorp's deal was in the nation's best interests.  Panama City now had a pesticide factory spewing toxic chemicals over its downtown, thanks to Lionel Luthor.

   "Might one inquire as to the matter at hand, Lex?"  Dominic's tone had sweetened a bit.  He was clearly salivating at the possibly of another scandal he could carry to Lionel's bedside.

   "Sorry to disappoint you, but it's just a routine inquiry.  Say hello to my father for me."  Before Senatori could respond he terminated the call.

   Lex swiveled his chair so he could look out the stained glass windows at the house's extensive gardens.  It was too late in the year for anything to be in bloom, and the flowerbeds were now yellow and gold with fallen leaves, but it was still a picturesque sight.  Maybe next spring he would open up the gardens to the public for a few days so other people could see it.  Doing so would have the added benefit of making his father furious.

      He tried not to spend a great deal of time deciphering the tangle of emotions he felt about his father, but he also knew that, when it came to dealing with people in the business world, Lionel's instincts weren't all that far off.

   "'Know thy enemy,'" the older man was fond of quoting.  Lex planned to take him up on the advice.  Finding out all about Angela McKay's past had been easy; those of the late Dr. Roshenko and the Hamiltons, father and son, were proving more difficult. Abermarle would be the perfect person for the job.

p

     Two more days had passed, and the investigation being run out of the _Torch_'s office had hit a brick wall.  The _Daily Planet_ had provided a pretty thorough recap of Dr. Hamilton's arraignment.  Aware for the first time of the real reason Hamilton had lost his job, the citizens of Smallville had already tried and convicted him in the court of public opinion.

   "The guy had the means and the opportunity," Chloe recounted over coffee at the Talon.  "Hamilton definitely could have strangled Roshenko; he was ancient."  She ticked off her points on her fingers as she talked.  "The _Planet_ says the cops found Hamilton's prints all over the lab.  The U had a restraining order against him, so there's no way they could have been there by accident.  And Hamilton couldn't or wouldn't account for his whereabouts the evening of the crime."  She took a big swig of her mocha.  "Pretty open and shut, I'd say."

   "You still don't have much of a motive," Clark interjected.  

   "The state's case is definitely weak on motive," Pete seconded.  Sometimes having a judge for a mom did weird things to Pete's speech.

    "Yeah, but I've figured out how we can fix that."

   "Oh, man, I don't want to hear this," Clark groaned.

   "How?"  Pete said warily.

   "We talk to the arresting officer."

   "And how do we do that?"

   "Tomorrow's Saturday, right?  Well, I called Metropolis P.D. and they said Detective Bright works Tuesdays though Saturdays.  So we go in, say we're from the _Ledger_, which we kind of are, and ask him about Hamilton's supposed motive."

   "Uh uh, Chloe, count me out!"  Pete stood up and grabbed his backpack.  "I wasted last Saturday with you trying to get in to see Hamilton at the jail.  Clark, man, it was pathetic—she did everything but beg.  I'd love to help you, but a man's got to have some free time."  With that, Pete departed, leaving Chloe looking at Clark expectantly.

   "You know I always help my dad on Saturdays," he said, standing, ready to follow Pete's lead.

   "So you help him in the morning and in the afternoon we'll go to Metropolis.  I'll even buy you lunch first.   C'mon, Clark, I really need you with me."  The look in her eyes was so pleading that Clark crumbled.  Like he always did. 

   "O.k.  But no funny stuff, right?"

   Chloe beamed.  "Right."

   "We go, we talk to the guy, we come back."

   "Absolutely!" 

   "I mean it, Chloe."

   His friend drank the rest of her coffee and jumped to her feet.  "I totally understand."  She paused for a moment, and then unexpectedly stood on her toes to give him a quick buzz on the cheek.  "You're the best, Clark.  I gotta go make some plans."

      "What plans?" he called, but she was already out the door.  Chloe Sullivan, the human tornado.

     "We're not so bad off that you have to bus your own table, Clark," Lana teased when he brought the empty cups back to the bar.

   He blushed.  "My mom taught me to always pick up after myself."  Oh, man, did he actually just say that?  Maybe he'd get lucky and the earth would open up and swallow him now.

    No such luck. 

    "That looked like a pretty top secret meeting you three were having.  I heard Chloe's working on a story about Dr. Hamilton's case." Lana was sorting receipts into neat little piles.  "The papers are making it sound pretty grim."

   "Yeah."  Clark never got tired of looking at Lana.  Even though he knew Whitney was still right there between them, like a ghost.  

   Concern shaded her hazel eyes.  "Do you think he did it, Clark?"

   "Chloe does.  I think Pete does, too."  He brushed his hair out of his eyes.  "But I'm not so sure."

   "Why?"  

     When he didn't answer right away she smiled.  "Really, Clark, I'd like to hear your opinion."

   His throat suddenly felt tight.  "Uh, well, it's not an opinion, more of a feeling that something's not right.  A hunch, I guess you could call it."

   "Well, you journalists are supposed to have hunches, right?"

   Clark had never been called a journalist before.  Wow.  A journalist.  He couldn't help but stand up a little straighter.  "Yeah.  Yeah, we are."

   By the next day, however, he felt anything but journalistic.  In fact, standing with Chloe in the lobby of police headquarters he felt kind of queasy.  

   "Just follow my lead, Clark, and you'll do fine," Chloe whispered to him as a heavyset man in a rumpled shirt approached them.

   "Detective Bright?"

   "That's right."  The man was his father's age, sporting a crew cut and huge, beefy hands.  Clark didn't even want to think about what would happen if the detective saw through Chloe's story.

   "I'm Chloe Sullivan, and this is Clark Kent—we're with the Smallville _Ledger_.  I called this morning?"

   "Right, right."  Bright eyed them suspiciously.  "You're awfully young to be reporters."

   Clark opened his mouth, but Chloe jumped in.

   "We're interns."

   The detective grunted.  "Yeah?  That's nice.  I've got a daughter about your age and all she does is sit around all day and watch TV."

   The two students smiled politely.

   "How can I help you kids?"

   "Well, we're just tying up some loose ends about the Hamilton arrest…"

   "As interns," Clark babbled.

   Chloe surreptitiously jabbed him in the ribs.  "…And we were wondering if you could tell us any more about your theory of the motive."

     Bright rubbed one of those huge hands across his head, and smiled indulgently.  "Well, now, I'm sure you read the _Planet's_ report—they did a pretty through job."

   "Yes, but they failed to build a strong case for why Hamilton would kill someone he used to work with."

   Looking a bit taken aback by Chloe's rapid-fire response, Bright shook his head.  "Trust me, Miss Sullivan, we've got a motive, a damn good one actually."

   "We're sure you do," Clark jumped in again.  "We were just hoping you could tell us a little more about it."

   "Well…" Bright squinted at the little notepad Chloe had whipped out of her bag.  "Off the record?"

   Clearly the man was no longer amused by two kids playing detective.  He was taking them seriously now.

   To Clark's surprise, Chloe nodded.  "Off the record."

   Bright glanced around him, but no one was paying them any mind.  "You'll recall the _Planet_ reported that Hamilton had been dismissed from the university for certain, ah, indiscretions."

   "For sleeping with several underage students, you mean," Chloe corrected.

   Clark couldn't believe it—the detective actually blushed.  The man cleared his throat nosily.

   "Ah, um, yes.  Well, you're wrong about Hamilton and Roshenko.  They may have been working together, but they sure as hell weren't friends."

   Clark frowned.  "What do you mean?"

   "Dr. Roshenko was the one who turned Dr. Hamilton in to the university's conduct board.  Cost him his job."

   "Wow."  Chloe scribbled frantically.  "You're sure about that?"

   "Chloe…" Clark whispered.

   "We're sure, Miss Sullivan.  Now if you don't mind I'd like to get home before my dinner gets cold.  Good luck with your story."  The big man brushed past them towards the elevator.

   "Thank you for your time, Detective Bright," Clark said quickly.

   Chloe kept scribbling.  "Man, Clark, this is it!  Talk about a motive for murder!  Roshenko was the reason Hamilton was stuck in Smallville!"

   "Do you want to say that a little louder, Chloe?  I don't think Gotham City heard you."

   "Sorry."  Chloe hastily lowered her voice.  "Bet the U asked the D.A. to downplay that part of their case.  Can't have the good parents of Metropolis worrying that their daughters are being molested at college."

   "So Hamilton really did it."  Clark could feel his ego deflating by the minute.  So much for his first great journalistic hunch.

   "Of course."  Chloe smacked him gently with her notes.  "What did I tell you, Clark?  Was this worth the drive or what?"

   "Yeah, I guess it was."

   "Don't look so glum—the day's not over yet."

   Uh oh.  

   "Chloe, I meant what I said yesterday."

   "Of course."  She took hold of his arm.  "C'mon, let's find someplace to get dinner—I'm starved.  And I'll tell you what we're doing next."

   "No, Chloe," he said over hamburgers and sodas at a dive not too far from the police station.  They were waiting for the sun to go down.  "Absolutely not."

   "No," he said, as Chloe thumbed through a phone book outside a convenience store.

   "No," he said, as they stood on the run down porch of the late Dr. Roshenko and she jimmied the front door lock with a nail file.  Somewhere a dog barked, and the dampness of evening wrapped around them.  "Chloe, this is breaking and entering.  Do you think you'll ever get a job with the _Planet_ if you have a criminal record?"

   "Clark, relax," she said, as the door finally swung open with a creak.  It sounded deafening in the silence.  "Look at this neighborhood; no one's around.  You'd think a professor would be able to afford a better place."

   It was a lousy neighborhood: shabby bungalows surrounded by chain link fences.  A vacant lot on the corner.  The kind of neighborhood where you might come back to find the hubcaps missing from your car.  Or your car missing from the driveway.  Evidently molecular biology didn't pay as well as he'd thought.  

   Chloe was already inside, and Clark had to hiss at her to make himself heard.  "I'm leaving, Chloe.  I mean it."  He could hear her fumbling around.  Great—not only were they going to get arrested but she was going to break a leg.  They were leaving if he had to carry her out.

   It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but there was enough moonlight coming in through the windows to see that the place was a mess.  The main area, a living room, was a virtual sea of books: books on shelves, books stacked on the floor, even books propping up the coffee table.  The place smelled musty, unused.  There was a dirty mug on a side table, and a stack of dirty dishes in the tiny kitchen.

   Chloe was hastily rifling through the papers that seemed to be on every horizontal surface. 

   "Let's go," Clark whispered again.

   "Just a second, Clark," she whispered back, loudly.  "I just want to have a look around."

   Clark surrendered.  The quicker they looked around and found nothing the quicker they could leave.

   "What are we looking for?"

   "Threatening letters."  Chloe held a paper up to the moonlight, and then put it back in a stack.  

   "You wouldn't leave evidence like that just lying around."

   "You might if you didn't know you were about to be killed."

   "Oh, great, I feel so much better now."

   Chloe took one side of the room, and Clark the other, but they didn't find anything.  Just that Roshenko clearly never threw _anything_ away, right down to junk mail and the labels off soup cans.

   "My mom would have a heart attack if she could see this place.  Chloe, there's nothing here.  I'm sure the police took away anything even remotely suspicious."

   In the moonlight Chloe looked crestfallen.

   "I was so sure we'd find something."

   "Sometimes hunches don't work out," Clark told her with the wisdom of experience.

   "Guess not…oohh!"  Chloe stumbled in the darkness, and Clark caught her just before she hit the floor.

   "Are you o.k?"

   "Yeah, I think so."  Chloe rubbed her ankle.  "What did I trip over?  A dead rat?"

   Clark glanced around them. "I don't see anything."

   Chloe knelt down and ran her hand over the floor.  "Clark, one of the floorboards is loose!"

   "So?  It's an old house, Chloe.  You're lucky it wasn't a nail."

   Chloe was now working to get her fingernails down and around the edge of the board so she could lift it up.  

   "Breaking and entering isn't enough?  You want to add destruction of private property?"

   "Quit complaining and help me," Chloe ordered.  Before he could refuse the board gave way.

   "See?"  Chloe cried gleefully.  She held a piece of flooring about a foot long and a few inches wide in her hands.  Before he could stop her she'd thrust a hand into the dark space beneath.   "I can't feel anything," she complained, pulling her hand back and brushing it off on her jeans. 

   "There's probably a crawlspace under the house."

   "Why didn't I bring a flashlight?"  Chloe moaned.  "My arm doesn't quite reach—Clark, you do it.  Your arms are longer."

   "Fine, but only to keep you from crawling down there yourself."  He tried not to think about the kind of things that liked to live in dark, dirty crawlspaces as he lay on his stomach and reached down into the small hole.  Sure enough he reached down into an open space, right through the floor joists.  He groped around, inwardly cursing the day he'd met Chloe.  Finally he resorted to using his x-ray vision.

   "There's something down here," he said in surprise.  

   "Can you feel it?"  Chloe cried excitedly.

   "Uh, yeah.  Feels like a metal box."  He was able to catch hold of the ring on top of it with his fingers.

   "Don't drop it!"

   Carefully Clark lifted the box back through the floor and into the house.  It looked like an ordinary metal box, the kind everyone had around to hold insurance papers and birth certificates.  But why go to all the trouble to hide it under the house?  Either Roshenko was really paranoid, or there was something in there he didn't want found.

   Chloe took the box and moved closer to the kitchen window where the moonlight was strongest.  "If someone was sending me threatening letters," she breathed, "this is exactly the kind of place I'd put them."

   Clark's own heart was beating faster as Chloe struggled with the latch.  When the lid popped open and they peered inside, they both sighed in disappointment.

   Sure enough the box was full of papers.  Newer ones on top, older papers, some of them crumbly around the edges, on the bottom.

   "Looks like the deed to the house."  Chloe examined the top one.  "He bought it a few years ago.  Is that what a dump like this goes for in Metropolis?  Ouch."

   "Letters," Clark looked at the next bundle.  "These are pretty old; and look, the postmarks are European.  Paris, Amsterdam…They're addressed to somebody named Janus Illyovitch."

   "You don't think Hamilton would have mailed a letter from Europe, do you?" Chloe sighed.

   "Sorry, no.  Probably a relative."

   "What's the other stuff?"

   "Um, looks like his personal papers.  Birth certificate, or maybe immigration?  I can't read them, but it looks like Russian to me. And look, they have the hammer and sickle stamped on them."

   "Pete said he left Russia during the Cold War, when it was still the Soviet Union."

   Clark nodded.  "I wonder how he managed that.  I mean, in history class we read about all those people trying to defect, and never making it.  This guy actually pulled it off."

   "Yeah.  Pretty amazing."

   "Yeah.  And look, this one has his picture on it."

   Chloe squinted.  "Hey, he wasn't a bad-looking guy when he was young."

   Clark squinted too, but for a different reason.  The edge of the photo was peeling up ever so slightly, and he used his x-ray vision to take a quick look under it.  And then a longer look.  Then he took the document away from Chloe and laid it on the counter.

   "What are you doing?  Clark, are you crazy?"

   He worked at the loose corner with his thumbnail, trying to be as careful as he could.

   "Clark, you'll tear it."

   "Hang on a minute."  Luckily the glue was old and brittle, and suddenly the photo popped off and fluttered to the floor.

   Standing with their heads together, they stared down at where the photograph had been.  There had been another one underneath.  Of a different man.

   "This guy's not as cute," Chloe observed at random.

   The two had been so absorbed in their find that they didn't hear the key in the lock until it was too late.  The overhead lights flipped on, and they were both momentarily blinded.  The figure in the kitchen doorway spoke.

   "O.k.," said Angela McKay.  "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call the cops right now.

   Chloe stood frozen. Before he could think, Clark blurted out the first thing that came into his head. 

     "Because Roshenko's not who you think he is."

   /html


	4. 4

html

     Clark and Chloe's story came out in fits and starts, first one talking, and then the other.  Angela had to keep stopping them when they seemed to skip important points.

   "So then Clark peeled up the photo, and there is was.  Someone else's picture was under it.  Which means it was probably a forgery…"

   The girl called Chloe talked a mile a minute.  Whatever fright Angela's sudden appearance had given her had quickly worn off, and now she seemed positively thrilled by her unusual find.

   The boy, Clark, seemed much more wary.  But then Angela hadn't bothered explaining why she was there.  She was far too busy listening to their convoluted and, truth be told, downright bizarre story.  Angela had done her share of stupid things at their age, but breaking into a house in search of evidence?  If she were of a more maternal bent she would probably deliver a lecture about how pulling stunts like this could ruin their lives.

   But Angela had other things on her mind.

   Smallville again.  Hamilton, Lex, and now these two.  Coincidence?  She thought not.  

   And then there was the really disturbing issue of the photograph.  It lay now on the table between them.  She carefully studied the tiny sepia-tone photo of Roshenko as a young man, and then the photo that had been under it.  She'd never seen the other man before.  Chloe and Clark showed her all the other papers as well, the Soviet documents and the old letters.  Older than anything else in the box, the letters predated World War II.  She'd been in Roshenko's house a dozen or more times over the years, but she'd never seen anything of a personal nature—no photographs, no souvenirs from his travels, no letters.  Clark's discovery of the hidden box disturbed her more than she was willing to say. 

    As they talked Angela put on water for tea, and when the teenagers finally seemed out of things to say she gave each of them a mug with a tea bag in it.

   "I don't suppose either of you read Russian."

   "Nope."  Chloe's eyes lit up.  "Do you?"

   "No.  French and German.  Most foreign scientific journals are in one or the other."

   "So, um, you work—worked—for Dr. Roshenko?"  Clark asked.  It was obvious the breaking and entering had been the girl's idea.  He looked like the kind of kid who would never get into trouble on his own.  Rosy cheeks, green eyes, the whole all-American thing.  Angela had a pretty good idea why Chloe dragged him around with her.

   "I did."  She poured hot water from the kettle for each of them and sat back down.  "His funeral's tomorrow, and the university's lawyers will be coming by.  Apparently he left this place to the school.  I thought I'd try to make it…presentable.  You may have noticed he wasn't much of a housekeeper."

   Angela didn't bother adding what a shock it had been to come up the back path and see two heads silhouetted in the kitchen window.  If she'd been less preoccupied she would have called the cops first and asked questions later.  Instead she'd burst in to find two high school kids in Roshenko's kitchen.  Curiouser and curiouser.

    "Listen, I hope we didn't…upset you.  I mean, I know this looks really bad," Clark said, "but we were trying to help.  In our own weird way."

   Drinking her tea, Chloe nodded in agreement.  "We just want to see justice done.  Hamilton…"she trailed off helplessly, not sure what to say.

   "Oh, that."  Angela tapped her fingers against the sides of her mug.  "I don't believe Hamilton killed Roshenko."

   Clark's eyes widened.  "How can you be sure?"

   "The pieces don't fit," she said absently.

   He smiled at her over the rim of his cup.  "If it's any consolation, I don't think they do either."

   "Hang on here, guys," Chloe said.  "The D.A.'s building a great case as we speak.  If it wasn't Hamilton, who was it?  And why?"

   "Do you think there could have been something else in Roshenko's background, something that might explain why he was murdered?"

   "Clark, a week ago I would have said 'no.' Now," and here she idly thumbed the old papers, "I'm not so sure.  He never told me what his life was like before he came here.  I just assumed he didn't like to talk about it."

   Clark and Chloe exchanged a long look.

    "What do you think we should do now?"  Chloe asked her.

   "Find someone who can read Russian, I suppose."

   "And we can look into Dr. Roshenko's background, uh, just to see.  Y'know."  Chloe seemed to have remembered she was speaking to someone who had known the man, and was still mourning his loss.

   Angela collected the letters and papers back into a neat stack.  "Look, I don't want either of you to say anything to anyone about what you found.  It's obvious the police never searched this place, or, if they did, they did a lousy job.  That could mean a lot of trouble for you two."

   "What will you do with them?"  Clark asked.

   She sighed.  "For the time being, they'll go back where you found them.  If I can find someone to translate the papers, I'll let you know."  Angela glanced at her watch.  "You know, it'll be past midnight by the time you get back to Smallville.  You guys should get going."

   Angela flipped on the lights in the living room so they could safely find their way to the front door.

   "Thanks for talking to us, Angela," Chloe smiled.  "And for not freaking out."

   "Sure.  I'll wait until you're in your car—this isn't a great neighborhood."

   Clark looked at her, then at the mountains of books and other debris.  

   Angela gave him a tired smile and shrugged.  "The doc never could throw anything away."

   His green eyes showed concern.  "Will you be all right?"

   "I'll be fine, Clark.  Now get moving—Chloe's waiting for you."

   Angela waited in the doorway until Chloe's old car had rounded the corner at the end of the block.  Then she went back into the kitchen.

   The dishes from Roshenko's last meal, now coated with a hard crust, were still piled in the sink.  She added the cups from this evening, washed and dried the dishes, and put them away in the cabinets.

   When she'd done this she revisited the metal box that Clark had found.  To this she returned the Soviet documents.  She was going to stick Roshenko's photo back on the paper it had come from, but holding it in her hand it dawned on her that she didn't have any photos of her teacher and mentor.  She pocketed it instead.

   The box went back down into the crawlspace, and with the slightly warped floorboard back in place it was impossible to tell what was there.  She moved a chair over the spot, just in case.  The letters, however, went into her bag.

     Then she did the best job she could at clearing pathways through the living room, which mainly consisted of relocating stuff from one pile to another.  She hated the thought of a bunch of lawyers being here, poking through her friend's possessions, even though logically she knew that, wherever he was now, Roshenko was beyond caring about such things.  She had to smile at the evidence of his life still all over the house—one shoe under the sofa, a coupon for detergent half-buried in the soil of a potted plant.  Lord only knew what people who hadn't known him would make of it.  Hopefully his books would go to the university library, and the rest of it to charity.  Although, she thought, eying the lumpy sofa, even charity might not want it.

     On the mantel she found a tall stack of his technical papers, including one that the two of them had been collaborating on.  The sheaves of data and notes belonged back at the lab with the rest of his work; there was already some talk of donating his papers to the archives.  If they ever returned from the Metropolis police department, that is.  Too tired to sort through it, Angela decided to take the whole of it with her and sort through it later. 

   At home she took a hot shower to try and get some of the knots out of her back.  Then, wrapped in her robe, she removed the pile of letters from her bag.  She curled up on the sofa where there was more light and examined them silently for a while.  Then she carefully removed the first one from its faded envelope and started to read.   

p

     On Monday morning Lex got a call from Angela McKay asking him to meet her at the plaza in front of the _Daily Planet_.  He'd spent the weekend in town, trying to simultaneously keep on top of both LuthorCorp's business and his own.  He'd also gotten a call from a very conciliatory Langsdon Carter, assuring him that his best man was working Hamilton's case and it looked largely circumstantial.  There had been no parties, no nightclubs, and no one interesting to talk to, and he found himself looking forward to meeting Angela again.  

     She'd chosen a particularly nice spot, one often featured on picture postcards of Metropolis.  In the center of the plaza a large fountain helped soften all the concrete and glass around it, and at night it lit up in shades of blue and gold to match the newspaper's famous revolving logo.  In a few hours the space would be filled with office workers eating their sandwiches and trying to take in some fresh air before returning to the daily grind, but it was now only mid-morning.  Under different circumstances he would have arranged to have an early lunch waiting for them someplace private.

   Angela was already standing by the fountain.

   "You missed a nice funeral," she said when he showed up.  

   "It was on the evening news.  Looked like quite a turnout."

    "It was," she nodded.  "Everybody cried, even the students he had flunked.  The president of the university made a dull speech and the department secretary's mascara ran all over the place.  The National Academy of Sciences set a huge arrangement of lilies and orchids—they must have cleaned out every florist in the Midwest.  And there was a wake, too, at Dean Carroll's house."

   He'd never heard Angela prattle before, and he looked at her a little oddly.   The sun had brought some color to her cheeks, but she was still pale.  Her eyes seemed unnaturally bright.  Funerals could be draining experiences, and having the shadow of murder hanging over this one would have made it even worse.  Lex wondered if maybe the stress of Roshenko's death was finally getting to her.  She'd seemed fine last week, but…      

   "Are you feeling all right?"  

   "I'm fine, thank you."  She said stiffly.

   "You don't look fine.  Why don't you sit down?"  He tried to take her arm, but she pulled away.

   "So what did Dr. Hamilton say? When you spoke to him?"  she asked.

   "He wouldn't see me," he said cautiously.  Her blue eyes seemed to get even brighter, as if she was running a fever.  Maybe he should take her home.

   "No, I thought not."

   "Angela…"

   "Oh, and I met some friends of yours the other night.  Clark Kent and Chloe Sullivan."  She looked at him through widened eyes.  "Ring any bells?"

   For a moment he was completely taken aback, but he didn't let his composure slip.       

   "What did they do this time?"

   "Just a little breaking and entering.  Considering it's not my house I'm not going to press charges, but you should probably tell them that's the kind of things that goes on their permanent record."

   "I'm sorry, Angela—Chloe has a burning ambition to become a journalist.  I was afraid they might try something like this, but apparently my talk with Clark didn't do any good."  

     "I suppose they're friends of Dr. Hamilton, too?"  She regarded him pointedly, then looked away and sighed.   "Would you like to tell me the truth now?  I'm pretty tired of playing this game."

   "It's not a game, Angela," he said honestly.  "I do want to help Hamilton, and I needed your help.  I don't believe he killed Roshenko, and neither do you."

   "I'm not sure what I believe any more."  Angela twisted her fingers together.  "I really don't think there's any point to this.  I don't trust you; you clearly don't trust me."  

   "I do trust you, Angela."  As he said it he was surprised to realize it was true.  "And it matters because Hamilton's still in jail."  Something else was going on here—this wasn't about Chloe and Clark's interference. 

   "You could get him out tomorrow if you wanted to, Lex—you have the data proving Roshenko was far more valuable to Hamilton alive than dead.  All you'd have to do is turn it over to Harris.  But somehow I don't think you're going to do that."

   "Angela, what is going on?"

   She ran her hands over her eyes.  "I'm tired, Lex.  Very, very tired.  Roshenko's dead, and I don't think he'd want me tangled up in this mess."  All of her focus was gone--she sounded like a different person.  "He'd want me back at work, doing what he trained me to do.  So as of now, I'm out.  You and Dr. Hamilton will just have to take your chances without me."  She smiled wanly.  "Have a nice life, Lex."

   Lex was too astonished to do anything except watch her walk away from him.

p

     Someone had painted the visitor's room at Metropolis jail an anemic shade of green.  They had probably thought it would be cheerful, Angela mused, but in reality it only made the room look more depressing than it had to be.

   Of course, any room divided in half by wire-reinforced Plexiglas and patrolled on either side by armed policemen would be depressing, anyway.

   One of the officers pointed her to a chair near the end of the row, and as she sat Angela tried very hard not to eavesdrop on the conversations around her.  From the sound of it, though, the other visitors were either girlfriends or lawyers.  And both groups main point of conversation seemed to be money.

   The door on the other side of the room opened, and Dr. Hamilton was led in.  Angela was surprised to see how much he'd aged since their last meeting: faint streaks of gray touched his temples, and he looked as if he hadn't been sleeping.  Angela couldn't blame him—she probably wouldn't be able to sleep in this place either.

   He sat down at the desk across from her, and for a moment she wasn't certain how they were supposed to communicate through the glass.  Then she noticed the pattern of tiny holes cut through it.

   "Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Hamilton," she said experimentally, unsure how close she would need to be to make herself heard.  "I know that you've been turning away most visitors."

   Hamilton slouched a bit in his chair.  "Because most of those so-called visitors only come because they want something from me."

   "Like Lex Luthor?"

   Startled, he leaned forward.  "How did you know about that?"

   "Because he's been to see me, too."  Angela folded her hands on the desk.  "Look, Dr. Hamilton, I know this isn't a good time, but you're the only person I can ask about this.  Did Dr. Roshenko say anything to you the night he died?  Was there anything he was worried about?"

   Hamilton shook his head.

   "Did he ever mention someone named Janus Illyovitch?"

   "We didn't exactly sit around and chat, Ms. McKay."

   Starting to lose her temper, Angela leaned forward.  "Look, Dr. Hamilton, I need you to help me.  I know your work with the meteorite rocks is finally showing progress.  I know you enlisted Dr. Roshenko's help to chart their mutagenic effects.  He developed a logarithm so you could explain to the world that the meteorite's effects are real.  They aren't random at all—not at the molecular level.  _That's_ why you came back to the university; _that's_ why the cops found your prints all over our lab.  It didn't all make sense until I realized why the mass spectrometer hasn't been working—it's been exposed to low-level radiation.  Your meteor rocks."        

     Hamilton sighed.  "Emil always said you were a sharp girl."  

     "Dr. Hamilton, why weren't you honest with the police?  That you had no reason to kill Dr. Roshenko?  That he was helping you?"

      "I didn't say anything because I don't want anyone to know about my work.  Not yet.  I haven't identified the mechanism that triggers mutation.  I still haven't located the meteors' point of origin."

   All of this seemed ridiculous to Angela.  "Listen, I understand your devotion to your work.  But you'd prefer people think you were a murderer?"

   Hamilton ran a hand over his eyes, and then looked at her directly.  "You're very young.  Do you have any idea what it's like—to have the scientific community turn its back on you?  To be an outcast, to be shunned?"

   Angela shifted uncomfortably.

   "I took that chance once—I tried to tell people about my theories, and they laughed at me.  I'm never going to make that mistake again."

    "Not even if it saves your neck?" She asked incredulously.

   "Not even then."

   "But whoever killed Dr. Roshenko is still out there," she said desperately.  "I've been trying to come up with another theory, another explanation, but nothing seems to make sense.  Are you sure you didn't see or hear anything that might help?  No matter how insignificant it might have seemed at the time?"

   "No, Angela.  I didn't."

   Sighing, she rested her chin in her hands.  It had been a long shot, but she had hoped that Hamilton might hold the key to the puzzle.  But if he did, he wasn't sharing.

     "Dr. Hamilton, I've been trying to reach Emil, but I haven't had any luck.  I think whatever he's working on is classified.  I'm sorry."

   Hamilton shook his head.  "I'm sure he wouldn't come if he knew."

   "I think you're wrong."

   "I don't want Emil involved in this—I don't want him anywhere near the Luthors, either.  You tell him that when you speak to him."  The older man eyed her sharply.  "And you should stay away from them, too.  Lex Luthor uses people, Ms. McKay, and when they're of no more use he throws them away."

   "He hasn't thrown you away," Angela retorted.  "Why is that?"

   "I mean what I say—stay away from the Luthors.  You're smart enough to recognize how dangerous they can be."

   Angela smiled wryly.  "Believe me, Dr. Hamilton, I have no intention of becoming involved with that family."  She reached down and picked up her purse.  "Thank you for your time.  If you change your mind and want me to talk to the D.A., let me know."

   Hamilton nodded.  "I will.  And Angela?"

   She turned back to look at him once more.

   "I really do hope you find out who killed Dr. Roshenko.  He was a good man."

   Angela nodded.  "He was."

p

     "Chloe, a fax just came through for you."  Pete held up a slightly wrinkled sheet of paper.  "We have _got_ to get the new principal to spring for a better fax machine."

   "I'll add that to the list, right between the new Xerox machine and an espresso bar," Chloe sighed.

   Clark smiled.  Chloe was constantly aggravated by what she regarded as the "substandard" conditions of the _Torch_'s office.  He was kind of surprised she hadn't hit Lex up for a grant.  She probably would, if he put the idea in her head.  So Clark kept his mouth shut.

   "I still can't believe the two of you actually broke into the dead guy's house."  Pete shook his head.  "Why am I always at home when the exciting stuff happens?"

   "It wasn't exciting, Pete—terrifying is more like it," Clark corrected.

   "Oh, c'mon, Clark, it turned out fine.  And we learned some really interesting things about the late Dr. Roshenko.  If that _was_ his name,"  Chloe said skeptically.

   "It only turned out ok because it was Angela McKay who found us, and not the cops or one of the neighbors.  We'd still be sitting in juvenile hall otherwise."

   Pete sat down at his desk, opposite Chloe's.  "Do you think he could have been a spy?  I mean, why else would he need false documents?"

   Chloe shook her head.  "I haven't been able to dig that deep into his past.  But since he's been here his record has been totally clean—not even an unpaid parking ticket."  She glanced up.  "Angela seemed pretty sure he wasn't into anything shady, but he might have been lying to her all along, too.

   "I don't know, Chloe, Angela seemed pretty sharp to me.  She's worked with the guy every day for two years—it would be hard for him to hide anything from her."  Clark knew from bitter experience how hard keeping secrets from close friends could be.  He just kept reminding himself that it was for their safety, as well as his own.  Maybe Roshenko had felt the same way about his own secret, whatever that was.

   "It sounds like she took the news pretty well, anyway," Pete mused.  "So," he winked at Clark, "is she pretty?"

   "Um, yeah, she's very pretty."

   "Ok, you two horn dogs, listen to this."  Chloe had been perusing her fax, and now held it up for inspection.  "My cousin's roommate works in Accounts at the university.  She got her to look up Roshenko's payroll statements.  According to this, he was pulling down almost $63,000 a year."

   "That can't be right."  Clark leaned over her shoulder to read the fax.  "Is she sure she got the name right?"

   "How many Evgeny Roshenkos can there be at one midwestern university?"  Pete shrugged.  "I though you guys said he lived in a dump."

   "He did."  Clark remembered the tiny, filthy house.

   "So what was he spending all his money on, I wonder?"  Chloe said thoughtfully.

   "Maybe he didn't spend it.  Maybe he just put it in the bank, hording it.  Angela did say the guy was a little, uh, eccentric."

   "Or maybe he put it in some offshore account where he wouldn't have to pay taxes.  Rich people do that all the time."  Pete smiled.  "Or maybe he hid it in the house—did you check under the mattresses?"

   "Shut up, Pete."  Chloe drummed a pencil against her desk.  "I wonder if they've read his will yet.  If he really did leave everything to the school they might be getting a fortune.  I think we need to make another trip to Metropolis, guys."

   "Hey, do we have Zoë's article on the new parking lot yet?" Pete asked.

   "Yeah, I'll get it."  Clark rifled through the papers on his desk.  The _Torch_ would come out next week, and things were already beginning to get stressed.  The last week was always an endless rush to collect articles, get faculty approval, and fill empty column space.  That usually meant all-nighters for Chloe.  And she was going to try to squeeze in another trip to Metropolis?

   Sure enough, she grinned at them.  "Stop trying to change the subject.  O.k., who wants to run down Trey and get the article on varsity basketball, and who wants to drive into Metropolis with me tomorrow night?"

   Clark lost the coin toss.

     "Is your dad ok with all the mileage you're piling on this car, Chloe?"  Clark asked as they made the long drive into Metropolis for the second time.

   "Uh, well, he's been pretty busy with the whole buy-out at the plant," she explained.  "Besides, it wouldn't be an issue if _somebody_ would ask to borrow his dad's truck."

   "You know my dad would only let me use it in an emergency.  And he'd want to know exactly where we were going, and exactly what we were doing."  Clark grinned.  "I don't suppose you'd like to tell him?"

   Ok, ok," Chloe grumbled.    

   They had gotten out of school early, on the pretense of visiting the _Torch_'s printer, but even so the sun was going down by the time they reached the city.  They parked in a student lot, now nearly empty, and walked together to the science complex.  Clark couldn't help but admire the campus: it was big, but lots of trees gave it a comfortable feeling.  Chloe pointed to the small groups of students lounging on the grass and throwing Frisbees.  

   "That'll be us in a couple of years, Clark."

   "Maybe."

   "No maybe about it, Clark.  They have a great journalism department here," she nearly skipped with happiness.  "Yes, Virginia, there is life after high school."

   Clark didn't bother pointing out that his own chances of going to college would be largely dependant on whether or not he got a scholarship.  Otherwise it would be part-time at a community college until he could scrape together enough money.  His parents always seemed convinced the family would be able to pay for college one way or another, but sometimes Clark had doubts.  He couldn't imagine anything worse than being left behind in Smallville, though.  He should probably ask Angela McKay if the science department had any good scholarships.  The SATs were only a year away.

   They couldn't find Angela listed in the directory for the main lab building, so they ended up at the department office where a secretary glanced up at them in annoyance.

  "I'm sorry, we close at 5:30."

   "It's only 5:28," Chloe retorted.

   The woman sighed, checking her lipstick in a small hand mirror.  "Fine.  How can I help you?"

   "We're trying to find Angela McKay.  She works—worked—for Dr. Roshenko.  Molecular Biology, I think," Clark offered.

   The secretary waved her hand toward the closed door behind her desk.  "She's in an emergency meeting with President Brooke and Dean Carroll."

   "Why?  Is she in trouble?"  Chloe frowned.

   The secretary continued to study her reflection.  Clark could only assume she had a date waiting.

   "Dunno, but I hear they want to shut down Roshenko's lab."

   "Shut it down?  Why?"

   "How should I know?"  

   The door opened, and two men in expensive navy suits emerged, followed by a very subdued Angela McKay.

   "Ms. McKay, some students here to see you."  The secretary pointed to where Clark and Chloe stood.  "Dr. Carroll, will there be anything else?"

   "No, thank you, Debbie—you can go home."  Dean Carroll, an older man with elegant gray sideburns, eyed them curiously.

   Chloe had already whipped out her micro cassette recorder.  "President Brooke, I heard you're closing down the Molecular Biology lab.  Is this connected to Dr. Roshenko's murder?"

   The university's president looked flabbergasted.  "Excuse me, young lady.  Who do you work for?"

   The Dean cleared his throat.  "I'll be happy to speak to these young people, Bill.  After all, it is my department."

   Brooke nodded, his mouth drawn into a thin line.  "Very well.  Good evening, Thomas.  Ms. McKay."  Looking at two students as if they were a particularly repulsive form of insect, he followed Carroll's secretary out of the room.

   "Now, what's all this about?"

   Angela sighed.  Clark couldn't help but notice how tired she seemed.  "Dean Carroll, this is Clark Kent and Chloe Sullivan.  This is Dr. Thomas Carroll, Dean of Sciences here at the university."

   Chloe withdrew the tape recorder a bit, but didn't turn it off.  "We've heard rumors that Dr. Roshenko's lab will be shut down."

   Clark had to hand it to the dean; he was pretty smooth.  "The measure is only temporary, until we can find a suitable applicant to take over operations.  Ms. McKay," and here he patted Angela's arm, "will have her hands full teaching the late doctor's fall courses."

   "What about the state's case?  It's been suggested Metropolis' finest didn't look as hard at Roshenko's life as they could have."

   "I beg your pardon?"  Dr. Carroll recoiled a bit.

   "Surely there were others with a motive to kill the doctor?  Someone with a grudge, say, or maybe something in his past?"

   "Young lady," Carroll said huffily, "I've no idea what you're implying.  But I worked with Evgeny Roshenko for more than ten years, and I can assure you, he was one of the most upstanding individuals I have ever had the privilege of knowing.  Ms. McKay," he turned a frosty eye to his employee, "who are these people?"

   "They're in my freshman Bioethics class.  Journalism majors—you know how they are."  Angela shrugged apologetically.  To Chloe and Clark she said, "Why don't we go downstairs—we can talk about your _assignment_ there."

   "The assignment.  Right."  Clark seconded.

   Chloe's recorder disappeared back into her bag.  "Thank you for the sound bite," she told the dean smoothly.  "I'll be sure it's passed right along to our editor."

   Angela took hold of Chloe's sleeve and fairly towed the younger woman out of the room.  Clark followed, leaving a startled-looking dean staring after them.

   "Ok, you two," Angela said as soon as they were safely back in the lab. "What's the big idea?"

   "Sorry, but I just figured I should push him while I had the chance," Chloe offered.

   Angela rolled her eyes.  "Great."

   "Did you really get fired, Angela?"  Clark asked apprehensively.  "They didn't find out about our, uh, visit the other night, did they?"

   Pulling up a stool, Angela shook her head.  "No, nothing like that.  And I haven't been fired, so much as…reassigned."

   Chloe gestured at all the exotic and obviously expensive equipment around them.  "But you know more about all of this than anyone!"

   "Yes, but Dr. Roshenko hired me.  It was his name and his research that got all this funded—not mine.  Now that he's gone, the university wants to find someone equally prestigious to fill his shoes.  They don't want me down here unsupervised."  She smiled bitterly.  "After all, I'm just a dumb grad student—I might spill Coke on the computers or use his research notes for paper airplanes."

   "I'm really sorry," Clark said.

   "Yeah, well, that's university politics, I'm afraid.  That's why a lot of people prefer working for private labs."

   "I think university politics suck," Chloe said tartly.

   "Angela, this has turned out to be a really bad time, but we found out something about Roshenko today that we can't explain."  Clark looked to Chloe, and she produced the folded fax out of her bag.

   "We did a little digging, and we found out what Roshenko's salary here at the university was," Chloe explained.

   "Something around 60K, I should imagine."

   "You knew?"

   "Sure," Angela shrugged.  "That's actually kind of on the low end for the amount of work and publicity he brought the U.  I always wondered why he didn't go some place else, but he said he was fixed here.  What does that bother you?"

    "Look how the guy was living, Angela," Chloe protested.

   "I told you he was eccentric."

   "There's eccentric and then there's bizarre," the girl responded.

   "Chloe…" Clark began, but Angela interrupted him.

   "That's ok, Clark.  I know Roshenko's behavior looks…weird to people who didn't know him.  But what would the guy have spent money on?  He had no family, no hobbies; he didn't even own a car because he never learned how to drive."

   Clark was thoughtful.  "Are you sure he left everything to the university?  That there isn't somebody else out there who is going to benefit from his death?"

   "I'm sure.  I haven't seen the will, but it should be available to the public by now.  Everything went to the school, to use as they saw fit."

   "So it must have been a lot of money, right?  So maybe President Brooke or the dean had him bumped off, y'know, like people who kill relatives for their inheritance."

   Angela shook her head.  "I really can't answer that, Chloe.  If you want I'll get a copy of the will from Roshenko's lawyer and send it to you.  I've already talked to him—he seems like a nice guy.  Has a bunch of papers the doctor wanted me to have.  Hopefully its his last draft of the article we were working on."

   "That would help, Angela, thank you.  Listen, have you found anyone who can read those documents we found?"

   "Hmm?  Oh, those.  No, I've been a little busy."  She brushed some dust off the counter.  "I was able to read the letters—they were in French, but I don't know who they're from.  I don't think they're important."

   Something about the way the woman ducked her head made Clark wonder if was telling them everything.

   "What's in them?"  He asked.

   "Oh, romantic stuff mostly."  Angela blushed ever so slightly.  "They're clearly from a woman to a man, I'll tell you that much.  But, again, nothing really significant."

   Clark was tempted to press the point, but as usual Chloe's mind was off on another tangent.

   "We've got to get the other ones translated—those are bound to be important.  But Hamilton still figures into this somewhere, too.  Man!  This is the craziest case."

   "Chloe, Clark, let me ask you—do you know who Hamilton was working for when he was living in Smallville?"

   "Just himself, I guess," Clark answered.  "He made ends meet by selling phony meteorite fragments to tourists."

   Angela raised her eyebrows.  "And that funded a laboratory?  What sort of equipment did he have, do you know?"

   "Clark never saw the lab, but I did."  Chloe was thoughtful for a moment.  "I don't know what to call any of it, but he had some serious-looking stuff.  A lot like what you have down here, actually.  And then a couple of months ago he just upped and vanished.  There were some suspicious…incidents.  I guess he thought he should get out of Dodge for awhile."

   Clark watched Angela closely; she was frowning to herself.

   "Angela?  What is it?"

   "I'm not sure.  It's just…odd, that's all."

   "Everything about Dr. Hamilton is odd," Clark offered.

   Angela laughed.

   "You two should probably get going," she smiled.  "And next time you need to talk to me, you can just call, you know."

   "I prefer the security of face-to-face communication," Chloe opined.

   Darkness had fallen while they were talking.  They walked back to Chloe's car across the deserted campus and Clark mulled over what they'd learned.

   "Any of it making any more sense to you?" Chloe asked hopefully.

   "No.  It's all just random bits and pieces."

   Chloe sighed.  "I feel the same way."  They reached Chloe's car, fortunately parked under a streetlight.  "I mean, we've got a world-renown scientist, who may not have been who he claimed to be but who everyone says was the nicest guy on earth.  We have Dr. Hamilton—definitely not the nicest guy on earth—working on something with him.  World-renown scientist gets killed, but no one seems to have a concrete motive, including the guy arrested for the crime.  Like you say, Clark, a lot of interesting bits and pieces, but no big picture."

   Clark smiled down at her—the streetlight had created a halo around her blond head.  "I guess it really is a puzzle, Chloe.  We just have to figure out what that big picture is."

   "I hate puzzles," Chloe grumbled as she fished in her pockets for the keys.

   Clark heard the shot before Chloe did.  With lightning speed he grabbed her by both arms, pushing her hard against the car door.

   "Clark, what the…?" 

   He felt the projectile ricochet off his shoulder into the air, where is struck the streetlamp, shattering it.  As broken glass rained down on them Clark dropped both of them to the ground.

   "Oh my God, Clark?"  Chloe was breathing irregularly.  "Was that what I think it was?"

   "Ssshhhh!"  He whispered.  Quickly he x-rayed the bushes around the parking area, but there were no forms outlined against the darkness.  Whoever it was had already made his or her escape.  And Clark wasn't about to leave Chloe here so he could run off after them, even at super speed.

   Chloe was whimpering, a very uncharacteristic noise for her.  "Clark, are you ok?  If you hadn't shoved me…"

   "I'm fine, Chloe."  He laid a hand against the side of her face; she was shivering.  "I'm fine—are you?"

   "I think so.  You've got glass in your hair," she laughed shakily.

   "So do you."  Clark was tempted to laugh, too.

   No more than a few minutes had passed before a campus police car roared up.  Two officers who couldn't have been much older than Angela McKay jumped out, their weapons drawn.

   "Are you two all right?"  One demanded.  "We had a report of shots fired."

   "Only one, and it hit the light, not us," Clark explained, pointing to the now-dark lamp above them.

   While one of the officers searched the bushes, the other helped them to their feet.  "Are you sure you're ok?  She doesn't look too good," he gestured at Chloe.

   "Just a little…startled, is all," Chloe said bravely, even though her teeth were chattering.  She had both her fists knotted in Clark's jacket.

   "No one's here, Joe," the other officer reported.  "Found a shell casing, though—better call Metropolis P.D. down here."

   "What kind of shell was it?"

   Clark gave Chloe an affectionate squeeze.  Even in shock Chloe's journalistic instincts were as finely tuned as ever.

/html

!!!!!!!! 


	5. 5

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    "Clark, breakfast!"

   Clark sleepily stuck his head out from under the pillow.  The clock on his nightstand read 8:00 AM, and for a moment he panicked about being late for school.  Then it dawned on him his parents must have agreed to let him sleep in, just a little, after the adventures of the night before.

   He rolled over and pulled the covers over his head.  After some lengthy questioning at the campus police headquarters, the Metropolis P.D. had seemed convinced the shot had just been a prank—somebody trying to scare two kids out of their wits.  Of course, Clark hadn't been able to tell them that the bullet had indeed been meant for them.  He wasn't about to explain how and why the bullet had missed.

    He also wasn't sure the cops had bought Chloe's cover story about their visiting Metropolis University's microbiology department for a school assignment, especially when they failed to reach Angela McKay at her lab.

   The worst events of the evening, however, had come when the officer on duty had insisted on calling their parents.  Chloe's dad had become nearly hysterical.  Clark's dad had threatened to drive all the way into Metropolis to retrieve them himself, no doubt so he'd be able to give both of them an earful on the long drive home.

   In the end, however, their repeated insistence that they were both ok had paid off, and after signing a brief statement the two investigators had been able to drive home on their own.

   The Kents had been waiting at Chloe's house when they arrived.  Martha Kent had hugged and kissed both of them, all the while promising that they were both in a lot of trouble.  Clark could tell by the expression on Jonathan's face that his parents would make good on those promises.  Gabe Sullivan had nearly been in tears.

   "Why do you do things like this, Chloe?"  He'd demanded of his only daughter.  "Why?"

   Chloe had scuffed her shoes on the tile floor, unable to look her father in the eye.  Clark had never seen her so miserable.

   "We'll talk in the morning, son," his own dad had promised gruffly, but otherwise he hadn't said a word as they drove back to the Kent farm.

   In the bright light of morning, however, Clark wasn't really worried about what his parents would do.  He'd take whatever punishment they decided to dish out.  No, what really worried him was who might have taken a shot at them, and why.  There was no doubt in his mind it was related to Roshenko's death.  Chloe's probing must have stirred concern in the someone's mind, enough that that person wanted to scare, or possibly even kill, them.

   At the moment, however, he was too sleepy to make much of events.  He let his eyes drift closed again, and when he next opened them the clock read 8:30.

   "Clark, time to get up—I mean it this time."  His mother's voice carried though the door, followed by her knock.  Martha stuck her head in and smiled.  She had never been able to stay angry with her son for long.

   "You've missed homeroom, but if you get dressed fast enough you can catch a ride into town with your dad in time for second period."

   "O.k., Mom."

   Clark threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and found his dad downstairs finishing a cup of coffee.

   "Morning," was all Jonathan Kent said, but his silence spoke volumes.  Clark was clearly still in big trouble.

   He hastily found his backpack.  His jacket from the night before hung on the back of a kitchen chair, but when he picked it up to put it on he saw the hole in the shoulder.  Experimentally Clark stuck his finger through it.  "Wow."

   "That's what bullets do, Clark," his father said, pushing his chair back and coming to stand next to Clark.  "You and Chloe could have gotten killed last night."

   "But we didn't, Dad," he protested.

   "You could have been."  Martha was shaking her head.

   "But we weren't.  Look, I know you guys are upset…"

   Jonathan ran a hand over his face.  "Clark, do you have any idea what it's like to get a call in the middle of the night from the police?  That's the kind of call every parent has nightmares about."

   "I know, and I'm sorry, really."  Clark looked helplessly from his father to his mother and back again.  "The police insisted we call before they'd let us leave.  But I was there, so nobody got hurt."

   Martha sighed heavily.  "Clark, you two nearly gave poor Gabe Sullivan a nervous breakdown.  Does Chloe ever think about what this kind of thing does to him?"

   "Chloe doesn't get into trouble on purpose, Mom.  She's just being, well, Chloe, I guess."

    "You can't be there all the time, Clark," Martha reasoned.  "And you can't keep charging into danger hoping that your powers will protect both of you.  Next time they might not."

   "Clark, Gabe Sullivan and I agreed last night—this investigation ends now.  You're not dealing with a few strange events or an out-of-control kid—this is a killer."  Jonathan set his mug down with a thump.  

   Clark knew better than to talk to his dad when Jonathan was in this kind of mood—better to let him cool off.  The two didn't speak during the drive into town.  Jonathan was clearly brooding, and Clark, now that he was awake, was still trying to figure things out.

   Ok, let's look at his logically, he told himself.  Who do we have as suspects?  As far as he could tell, there were only two—Dr. Steven Hamilton and Angela McKay.  Of the two Dr. Hamilton seemed much more likely, but the guy was still sitting in jail.  For Angela, he couldn't come up with a motive at all—she really did seem to mourn Dr. Roshenko's death.  He thought back to Chloe's puzzle analogy of the night before.  Clearly they were still missing some pretty big pieces.

   "Clark?"

   He looked up, surprised to see they were already in front of the school.  His father handed him a folded piece of paper.

   "Now take that into the office so they don't think you were cutting class.  I don't approve of your missing school, but your mom wanted you to catch up on some of the sleep you missed last night."

   Clark nodded.  "Thanks, Dad."

   Jonathan smiled just a little.  "Don't thank me until you've seen the new chore list your mother and I are going to work out."

    Clark groaned, but nodded.  "Right, Dad.   See you later."

    During the midday break he found Chloe in the _Torch_'s office, typing away frantically before the bell rang.  She jumped up when she saw him.

    "Clark!  Pete said you weren't in first period—I was afraid your parents had decided to lock you in the barn or something."

   "Almost," Clark grinned.  "It sounds like I'll be pulling extra-heavy chore duty around the farm for the next couple of weeks."      

    Chloe shook her head.  "That's better than what I got."

   "Your dad freaked, huh?"

   "That's putting it mildly.  I'm grounded for a month.  No car, no laptop.  I'm only allowed out to go to school and work on the _Torch_.  And at first he was talking about not letting me do that."

   "Ouch."

   "Yeah."  Chloe shuffled some of the issue proofs on her desk.  "I guess I never really thought about how what I do might affect him.  I mean, he's always been really easygoing about everything, and now I'm afraid he'll worry every time I step out the door."  She glanced up at him from under her lashes.  "And I'm sorry I kinda wigged out on you last night, Clark."

   "We did get shot at, Chloe; that would wig most people out," Clark answered mildly.

   "Do you think the cops were right, and it was just someone trying to scare us?"

   "I don't know, Chloe.  That would be a pretty big coincidence."

   "Yeah," she sighed.  "I hate to say this, but if it wasn't a coincidence there's only one person I can think of that would have had the motive and the opportunity."

   Clark leaned against a desk and folded his arms.  "You mean Angela McKay?"

   "What do we really know about her, Clark?  You saw how touchy she got when I asked about Roshenko's letters."

   "So, what, she just happens to keep a gun in her desk and decided to take us out?"  He asked skeptically.

   "She might if we're on to something she doesn't want us to know about."

   "I thought about that this morning, Chloe, and I just don't see it.  She seems to have genuinely liked the guy, and she's been really helpful so far."

   "Or maybe she just wants us to _think_ she's being helpful."  The bell rang; Chloe grabbed her bag but paused in the doorway.  "Face it, Clark—you just never want the girl to be the bad guy.  You're too damn chivalrous for your own good."       

    While Chloe and Pete spent the afternoon haggling with their faculty advisor over content, Clark worked on the _Torch_'s layout.  Chloe's interview with the new principal should take front and center on the first page, obviously, but he couldn't quite decide which of their other stories should share the space.  It didn't really seem fair to choose—thank God Chloe was the editor, and not him.  Sometimes he didn't think he had the cutthroat attitude needed to be a good journalist.  Of course, this was just a high school paper, unless you asked Chloe.  Then she would go on at some length about the _Torch_'s position as an award-winning publication devoted to exposing the seedy underbelly of Smallville.  Funny--until Chloe had arrived Clark hadn't been aware Smallville even _had_ an underbelly. 

   While he mused the fax machine beeped and spewed out paper.  Clark checked them, and was surprised to see that they consisted of several pages of legalese.  After a moment it dawned on him that it was a copy of Roshenko's will.  Angela had come through for them again.  At first he left it in the "In" basket, thinking he really should wait until Chloe came back before he read it, but finally curiosity got the better of him.

   It would take someone with a law degree to decipher most of it, but he finally found the part that, just like in the movies, started, "I, Evgeny Roshenko, being of sound mind…"

   It was pathetically short.  As Angela had said, it seemed pretty straightforward—all the doctor's savings and possessions were left to the University, to be used as they saw fit.  There was nothing about any relatives, or friends, receiving anything.  Clark pursed his lips.  So much for money being a motive in his death.

   In fact, as Clark studied the financial statement attached to the will, it began to dawn on him that something was wrong.  

   According to his will, Dr. Evgeny Roshenko had died with just under $20,000 to his name, not counting the value of his house.  That seemed like very little for a seventy-something man to have accumulated in a lifetime.

     Clark wasn't a banker, but that didn't sound right.  Fortunately, there was one person he could go to who knew a great deal more about money than he did.

p

     Lex's week had started badly, with Angela McKay's inexplicable behavior in front of the Metropolis _Daily Planet_, and it was just going downhill from there.

      He'd met with the board of LuthorCorp in an attempt to soothe their jitters about Lex taking temporary charge of the business.  It had taken a lot of conciliatory words and promises to smooth things over; that had wasted an entire afternoon.  His father, no doubt tipped off by Dominic, had called to berate him via speakerphone about the quarterly reports not being on his bedside table.  And to top things off, Gabe Sullivan, his plant manager, had been late to an early meeting that morning with the new shareholders in LexCorp.  Lex wasn't sure anyone else had noticed, and the man had apologized profusely, but, still, Lex was annoyed.  He needed Gabe more than he cared to admit—not only did Sullivan actually understand the inner workings of Plant Number 3, but the locals trusted him.  And the town's trust, Lex had learned from bitter experience, was extremely hard to gain.  In nearly twenty years of doing business in Smallville Lionel Luthor had never gained it.  Lex refused to end up the same way.

   In spite of all this, he was genuinely pleased to see Clark Kent when the younger man was shown in to his study.

   "Hey, Clark."

   "Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

   "No, your visit is just the excuse I need to take a break.  Come into the living room and we'll shoot some pool."

   "I suck at pool, Lex, you know that."  Nonetheless Clark followed him across the hall.  "Actually, I need some financial advice."

   Lex selected a cue and carefully chalked the end of it.  "Financial advice?  Why, are you considering taking Kent's Organic Produce global?  Going to corner the market on artichokes?"

   "Not exactly."  Clark had shoved his hands deep in his pockets.  Lex took his first shot and then eyed his friend casually.

   "What's up, Clark?"  

   Clark rocked back and forth on his heels, ever so slightly, the way he did when he was nervous.  "Ok.  If I told you there's this guy who makes over sixty grand a year for, like, decades, but when he dies only has about twenty grand to his name, what would you say?"

   Lex shot the eight ball into the side pocket, considering.  "There's a couple of things I could say.  First, are you sure about his income?"

   Clark nodded.  "Pretty sure."

   "Well, then I'd suggest this person, whoever he is, had a serious spending problem."

   "You didn't see how this guy lived, Lex."  Clark shook his head.  "He sure wasn't spending it on himself."

   "There's lots of other ways to blow money, Clark.  He could have had a gambling problem, or really bad luck on the stock market.  Or expensive taste in women."

   Clark blushed a little.  "I don't think so.  This guy got his jollies starting down a microscope all day and saving the labels off soup cans."

    Lex carefully set down his pool cue.  "Clark, this wouldn't have anything to do with you and Chloe looking into that mess in Metropolis, would it?"

   "Uh, yeah."

   One thing Lex really liked about Clark—the kid couldn't lie.

   He shook his head.  "I'd heard you two were still digging into that."

   Clark's eyes widened a bit.  "How did you know that?"

   Lex smiled.  "I know Angela McKay, Roshenko's former lab assistant.  Just casually, of course.  When she heard I live in Smallville she mentioned that she had met you and Chloe.  I take it you made quite an impression on her."

   "Yeah, I'll bet we did."  Briefly Clark sketched out what had been happening, from his midnight meeting with Angela in Roshenko's kitchen to the papers Chloe had found under the dead man's house.  Lex sat down on the leather sofa and listened silently until Clark told him about the gunshot the night before.

   "Well, I guess that explains why Gabe was late for work this morning."

   "Yeah, Chloe says he really chewed her out."  Clark sat down opposite him.

   "I can't say I blame him.  The two of you could have been…"

   "Killed, I know," Clark interrupted.  "Believe me, you're not saying anything I haven't been hearing for the last twenty four hours."

   Against his better judgment, Lex was fascinated.  Clark and Chloe's blind blundering had uncovered more than all of his subtle manipulations.  There was a lesson in that somewhere.  "So who do you think it was?"

   "Chloe thinks it was Angela who took the shot at us, to scare us off the case."

   Lex folded his hands.  "Unlikely."

   "That's what I said.  But she did seem upset about the letters; way too insistent that there was nothing in them."

   "But from what you're telling me she doesn't stand to gain anything from the doctor's death; in fact, it's put her job in jeopardy."  Lex now felt a little better that Angela hadn't been returning his messages—she'd clearly been otherwise occupied.  He would have to make a few well-placed calls and see if he could help.  Anonymously, of course. 

    Unfortunately, what he was saying about Angela's lack of motive applied equally well to Dr. Hamilton.  But he couldn't tell Clark that without revealing how much he knew about Hamilton's work.  Definitely a sticky situation.  He was actually relieved Clark had brought the discrepancies in Roshenko's finances to his attention.  It was another avenue Clark and Chloe could explore, one leading away from Cadmus Labs. 

    "I think this business of the late doctor's will is pretty suggestive, Clark.  At the very least it seems the man was more than what he seemed."

   "That's what everything seems to be suggesting."  Clark ran his hands through his already messy hair in frustration.  "But we can't dig any deeper than we already have, not into his bank records and not into his past.  It's like the guy didn't exist before he came here, and while he was here he barely left a mark."

    "You may not be able to dig any deeper into his past, Clark, but his bank records may be another story.  LuthorCorp is a major shareholder in most of the Metropolis banks.  Let me see what I can find out."

   "You can do that?"  Clark asked hopefully.

   "Of course.  Although I still think it was probably bad investments that wiped the guy out.  Happens all the time."

   Clark shrugged.  "Maybe.  But I really think we've been going in the wrong direction with Hamilton.  Maybe you'll find something that tells us where to look next.  And Lex?"

   "Yes?"

   Clark smiled apologetically.  "Do me a favor and don't tell Chloe I asked for your help?  She's in enough hot water with her dad as it is, and…"

   "And if I dangle another carrot in front of her I'll just make it worse.  Understood."

   "Thanks, Lex.  I owe you one."

   Lex smiled.  "That's a first—usually it's the other way around."

p

     True to their word, Jonathan and Martha Kent presented Clark with a new list of chores when he got home that evening.  In addition to his regular chores around the farm, they had added repainting the upstairs bathroom; cleaning out the basement; helping his dad repair the barn roof, and washing the dinner dishes every night for a month.

   "I have a hard enough time getting dates as it is—you guys want me to have dish pan hands, too?" he complained.

   Martha only smiled.  "You should have thought of that before you broke curfew and ran off to Metropolis."

   "We were going to add making dinner, but then we remembered what happened last time," Jonathan added.

   "How was I supposed to know potatoes blow up in the microwave?  It was an honest mistake."

   Clark felt a little uncomfortable not telling Chloe about the will, but she was preoccupied with getting the _Torch _out.  She was also being so careful not to get into any more trouble until her dad cooled off that it actually was easier to keep the secret than he'd thought it would be.  He was careful not to bring up the subject, although they both tacitly agreed that when things were calmer they'd pick up where they had left off.  Privately, though, Clark spent most of his evenings in the barn, re-reading Roshenko's articles and trying to fit all the pieces together in a way that made sense.

   He wondered if maybe he was too close to see what was really happening.  Chloe always said getting personally involved in a story was the kiss of death; any journalistic integrity would go right out the window.  But by now Clark knew the late doctor's work, where he'd lived, the same people he'd known. In a strange way he felt almost like he knew the dead man.  Clark had gotten into this in the first place only because Chloe had asked him to.  He'd stayed in it because Angela had seemed to need his help.  Now, though, he felt a responsibility to the man himself.  Whatever lies Roshenko may have kept couldn't have been bad enough to deserve death, and whoever had killed him needed to be brought to justice.  And, even though Clark hated to admit it, if Hamilton was innocent he deserved to go free.

   Over the next few days Clark left messages on Angela's phone at the lab, but she didn't call back.  He wondered if maybe the University had already shut things down.  That seemed strange, too—why not just keep the place running until Roshenko's replacement was hired?  Why go to so much trouble? 

   Sitting alone in his loft Clark couldn't help but wonder if some day his own secrets would create this same kind of havoc in someone else's life.  For as long as he could remember his parents had stressed the importance of keeping his abilities a secret for his own protection.  He could remember being afraid someone might try to take him away from his mom and dad if they knew how he'd arrived in Smallville.  He'd had nightmares about it for a long time.  Now he was older he worried more about how his secret might hurt those around him.  Both Phelan and Nixon had proved to him how dangerous that little bit of knowledge could be in the wrong hands.  If his parents got hurt, or Lana, or Lex, or any of his friends, he would never be able to forgive himself.  There were times he wanted to forget the whole thing, just tell the world and get it over with, but his concern for his friends' safety always stopped him.

   Had Evgeny Roshenko felt the same way?  Was that why he'd saved the love letters and the documents?  Because even though he couldn't tell anyone else about it, he wasn't ready to let go of his past?   

   "Clark?"

   He sat up on the couch.  Lex was standing at the top of the stairs.

   "Oh, hey, Lex."

    "So how goes the detecting?"  The older man nodded at the piles of papers on the battered trunk Clark used as a table.

   Clark rubbed the back of his neck.  "Not so good.  It's still at a dead end.  Chloe says we'll try again, but by then Hamilton's trial might have started and I really don't know what use we could be to anyone."

   "Don't give up, Clark—you and Chloe seem to have gotten farther than the Metropolis police did.  And I have some news for you."

   Clark looked up hopefully.  "No way."

   "Way.  Although I'm not sure it will help.  Might make things worse, actually."

    "At this point I'm willing to take that chance."

   "Turns out the late doctor banked with Metropolis First.  So I made some phone calls and called in a few favors."  Lex sat down on the couch.  "You were right, Clark—something is strange.  Up until about ten years ago his finances were stable: savings, 401K, nice house on the west side.  Then he started withdrawing money: first a few hundred at a time, every couple of months, and then in larger amounts with increasing frequency.  About five years ago he sold his house, but that money never made its way into his bank account."

   Resting his chin in his hand, Clark frowned.  "Do they have any record of where it all went?"

   Lex shook his head.  "No.  The sums were always withdrawn as cash.  No paperwork, no records.  The last withdrawal was about a month before he died.  Nearly $10,000.  Cash."

   Clark whistled.  "Wow.  I can't even image what that much cash would look like.  So assuming he didn't have a major drug problem or anything like that…"

   "It looks to me like he was paying someone off," Lex finished for him.  

   "Yeah, but who?  If we don't have the records we can't trace any of the money."

   "You would have to compare it against the bank accounts of people he came into contact with.  But even then, there are ways to hide large amounts of money so even a good accountant can't find it."

   Clark had a feeling Lex knew this firsthand: Lionel Luthor, after all, hadn't become a billionaire by playing by the rules.

    "His work wasn't particularly controversial.  No human testing, no black market suppliers.  And as you found out, his personal life was virtually non existent," Lex continued.  "So as far as we know, the only reason to blackmail him would be connected to those papers you and Chloe found."

   "The love letters weren't even addressed to him, and Angela had no idea who the women was who wrote them," Clark offered.  "So it must be the other stuff, the forged documents.  What kind of trouble do you think someone would get into for that?"

   "Depends, Clark.  If he lied to immigration and got caught he might have been prosecuted, but it's been, what, fifty years?  I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations has expired on that kind of crime."  

     "And to all appearances the guy led a quiet life, with a respected reputation.  They couldn't have just booted him out of the country, even if they'd wanted to."  Clark shook his head again.  "Man, if we only knew what his papers actually said."

   Lex's eyebrows went up.  "Angela's not helping you with that?"

   "I haven't been able to get a hold of her."  He frowned.  "I hate to say it, Lex, but I think she might be avoiding me.  I think she knows or suspects something she doesn't want to share.  At first she seemed almost obsessed with finding the killer, but now she seems more worried about protecting Roshenko's reputation."

   "If his credentials were faked and he's exposed, it could hurt her as well."

   "Yeah, I guess.  I tried again to find some of his Soviet records, but I couldn't.  None of that stuff is on line."

   Lex laughed.  "You haven't been there, Clark.  Believe me, not only is nothing on line but most of their records are rotting away in basements at the Kremlin.  That is, if they even have any."

    "Anyway, I appreciate your help, Lex.  Although," Clark eyed his friend, "you are kinda going above and beyond."

   "Anything to help a friend, Clark," Lex said smoothly.  "Besides, I'm concerned for Angela as well.  If she's in trouble we should try and help, shouldn't we?"

   p

     That night Clark couldn't sleep.  He kept thinking about what Lex said about trying to help if they could.  Lying there in the dark, he was torn about what to do.   On the one hand getting involved would land him in more hot water with his folks.  What would they have him do then—build a new barn?  Add a wing onto the house?  And there was Chloe, too—she'd be angry enough when she found out Clark and Lex had left her out of their findings.  If he continued on without her she'd kill him.

    On the other hand, he felt certain that Angela held the missing piece to the puzzle.  Maybe she was keeping it from him deliberately, or maybe she didn't know she had it.  But she was the one person who had worked more closely with Roshenko, who knew more about him, than anyone else.  And she had the letters.  Clark was still kicking himself that he hadn't insisted she give them to him when he'd had the chance.  What if she'd destroyed them, or worse—what if she'd gone back to the house and destroyed the forgeries?  Then there would be no evidence, and no case.  Hamilton would probably get convicted, and Clark would have to live with knowing he could maybe have stopped that, too.

    He wrestled with all of this for the rest of the week, while they put the _Torch_ to bed and he dutifully worked off the extra chores at home.  Chloe kept asking him if he was feeling all right, and once he nearly collided with Lana Lang in front of his locker because he'd been so preoccupied he hadn't seen her.

   "Clark, are you ok?"  Lana had looked up at him with her big green eyes.  "You look a little strange, and I haven't seen you around the Talon lately."

   "I'm kinda grounded," he explained, opening his locker and retrieving the book for his next class.  "But I'm fine."

   "Don't you have English next period?"  She frowned.

   "Yeah, why?"

   She nodded at the books he was holding, and looking down he saw his Chemistry book.  Hastily he stuffed it back in and got the right one.  "I guess I am kind of distracted."

   "Want to talk about it?"

    Clark shook his bangs out of his eyes.  "It's kind of…personal."

    Lana look crestfallen.  "Oh.  That's ok then."

   "No, uh, I mean…I've kind of gotten myself into a situation, and I'm not sure how to get myself out of it," he said honestly.

   "You're not in trouble, are you?"  She smiled.  "I thought Clark Kent never got into trouble."

    "Well, I did get grounded.  But it's more of an…ethical dilemma, I guess."  He leaned against the row of lockers.  "See, my head is telling me to do one thing—to not make things any worse by getting more involved than I already am.  But my heart's kind of saying that I've come this far, and I can't just drop it now even if she wants me to."

    "'Her'?  Chloe?"

    "No, just a friend.  I think she might be in trouble and I want to help her.  But she seems to want me to back off."

    Lana shook her head.  "Well, Clark, it's kind of hard to give advice without knowing all the particulars, but if it were me, I'd listen to my heart."

    "You would?"

    She smiled her beautiful smile at him.  "Definitely."

    Clark smiled back.  Lana had a way of cutting right to the heart of things, even when she didn't know the whole truth.  Especially when she didn't know the whole truth.  He hated to admit it, but was Lana who made up his mind for him.

    On Saturday, he found his dad out in the barn working on the tractor.

    "Dad, I finished cleaning the basement."

    "Did you show your mother?"

    "Yeah, she seemed pretty happy with it.  I labeled the boxes and everything.  We should have a garage sale next summer—we have way too much stuff."

    "I'll keep that in mind," Jonathan chuckled.  "That only leaves the barn roof, and I'll have to go into town for shingles and roofing nails.  We'll do that next weekend."

    "Ok."  Clark scuffed his feet in the dirt.  "Uh, Dad?  If you don't need it do you think I could borrow your truck?"

    "I guess so."  Jonathan looked up from the engine.  "Why?"

    "Uh, I need to go and see someone.   I'll be back tonight."

    "Clark."  His father gave him a steady look.  "Does this involve your driving back into Metropolis?"

    Try as he might, Clark had never been able to lie to his dad.  "Um, yeah."

    Jonathan swiped the back of his hand across his forehead.  "Clark, I thought I told you and Chloe to drop…"

    "Chloe's not going, Dad.  In fact, I haven't even told her about it.  You and Mom were right: I can't just always assume I can protect her."

    Clearly nonplussed, Jonathan frowned.  "But you still feel you need to go back."

    "I just need to talk to someone, that's all, Dad.  It's a loose end and I feel like if I don't deal with it now something bad will happen."

    Jonathan didn't speak for a long moment.  "You've been thinking about his for a while, haven't you, son?"  He said more gently.

   "Yeah, I have.  And I really feel it's something I have to do.  So I'd like to borrow the truck.  Please," he added hopefully.

    His father squeezed his eyes shut, and Clark braced himself.

    "All right."

    "Really?"

    Jonathan threw down a greasy rag and picked up a clean one.  "But here's the deal—you go there, you do what you need to, and you come right back.  No adventures, no gunshots, no special powers."

    "Right."

    "I mean it, Clark."

    Clark grinned.  "I know you do, Dad.  And thanks."

    Jonathan grunted.  "Lord only knows what I'll tell your mother when she notices you're gone. But I'll think of something."__

     The skies over Metropolis were clouding over by the time he got there, but the rain held off.  It was a gloomy, cold day, and the shining buildings downtown didn't look nearly as enticing as they usually did.  He found the Biology building unlocked, but before he could cross the lobby to the stairs a voice startled him.

   "We're closed on the weekends, young man."

    Clark looked up to find the dean advancing on him.

    "Hello, Dr. Carroll, do you remember me?  Clark Kent?"

    The man pursed his thin lips together.  "Oh yes, the journalist."  He said "journalist" in the same tone one would use to say "terrorist."  "Where's your young friend?"

    "She couldn't make it.  I just need to have a quick word with Ms. McKay—do you know if she's around?"

    "She isn't in the habit of meeting with students on the weekend."

    "I know, but this is really important," Clark hedged.

    "Well, I imagine she's downstairs packing up the last of her things.  The lab will be officially closed as of Monday.  But please make it short—I'm sure she has better things to do with her time.

    "Yes, sir."

    The gloom outside cut off a lot of the natural light in the basement, and even though it was only late afternoon the fluorescent lights were humming overhead.  Clark peered though the door into the lab; Angela was sitting at one of the lab tables, reading something.

   "Angela?"

    She jumped.  "Oh, God, Clark, you scared me.  I didn't know anyone else was in the building."  She hastily stuffed whatever she had been reading into the pocket of her leather jacket.

   "Actually, Dean Carroll is upstairs.  He said you'd be here."

    "Yeah, well, as you can see I'm just packing up a few things."  She gestured to a box containing some books and other items.  "Don't know when they'll have me back down here, although I heard they have a line on a few applicants."  She glanced around her sadly.  "Won't be the same, though, working for someone else."

    "No, I guess it wouldn't."  Clark took a step closer, gesturing to the pile of papers in front of her.  "More grading?"

    "Uh, no.  Actually, its stuff Roshenko's lawyer brought me."  She smiled shakily.  "I've only just now looked through it.  See, here's our article."  Angela pointed to the papers on top.  "I'll have to see how soon I can get it published."

    "Nothing personal?  No letters or anything?"

    Clark could see her hand move quickly toward her pocket, and then drop as if aware of his scrutiny.  

    "No, just work.  That's what he was all about, right?  His work."

    Angela was lying; Clark knew it just as surely as he knew anything.  He just wasn't sure what to do about it.

    "I've been trying to reach you all week."  He nodded towards the phone on the wall.

    "Have you?"  She couldn't meet his eyes.  "Sorry—things have been kind of crazy around here."

    "Angela, what about Roshenko's papers?  The personal ones Chloe found?"

    "What about them?" she said stiffly.

     Clark sighed.  "I've had a lot of time to think about this, Angela.  I want to help, but I can't if you're not honest with me.  I think they're important to this somehow; I think you know that, too, but you won't admit it."

    "I don't know anything of the kind, Clark."  This time she did look him, with a cold, flinty gaze.  "I told you I'd look at them when I had a chance."

    "But you've already read the letters.  What do they really say?"

    "Exactly what I told you, Clark.  They're love letters from a woman named Mina to a man named Janus.  There's nothing in them that could shed light on any of this."

    For a moment Clark wished he was the kind of guy who could show his temper: he wanted to shake her.  But of course he didn't.

    "Angela, please…"

    "What exactly are you accusing me of, Clark?"  She stood up.

    "I'm not accusing you of anything, except maybe being a friend.  The kind of friend who'd do anything if they thought it would protect someone they cared about."

    Angela blanched.  "I'm not talking to you, or to anyone else, about this.  You couldn't possibly understand."

    "I know about keeping secrets, Angela.  More than you could imagine," he said, almost unintentionally.  But she was so angry by now she didn't notice.

    "Get out, Clark.  I mean it."

     Clark held up his hands in a helpless gesture.  "O.k.  If that's what you really want.  But promise me one thing, Angela.  Promise me that you'll think about this—I mean really think about this," he said as gently as he could.  "I don't want you to get hurt because of some kind of misplaced loyalty to a dead man."

    Her eyes blazed, and she jerked her chin towards the door.  "Out."

    "Fine.  Goodbye, Angela."

    Frustrated and angry, with himself and with her, Clark stalked back up the stairs.  He just hoped his words would sink it when Angela cooled off, and she'd understand what he was trying to say.  But at the moment, he doubted it.  

/html

!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 


	6. 6

html

     Rain was beginning to spit down as Clark ran back to his truck across the deserted parking lot.  He tugged his collar up and dug out his dad's keys as the skies rumbled ominously.  So far the gloomy day had lived up to all its promises.

   With the keys in the ignition Clark sat behind the wheel and watched the windshield wipers sweep back and forth, back and forth.  He knew that, technically, he should hold up his end of the bargain he'd made with his dad.  He'd done what he came to do, and the sooner he got home the sooner he could reassure his mother that nothing bad had happened.  But he still hadn't shaken the unsettling feeling in the bottom of his stomach, the feeling that something was wrong.  He just couldn't put his finger on what it was.

   God, he hoped he wasn't developing some sort of weak power of premonition.  On top of his other powers that would be the last thing he needed.

   He finally settled for digging through his backpack until he found his address book.  Thumbing through it, he found the number he was looking for, but he had to drive to a nearby convenience store to find a payphone.  His parents wouldn't let him have a cell phone, no matter how much he begged or argued that he was the last teenager on earth without one.

    Fortunately, with the storm approaching the convenience store was deserted, and he was able to punch in the numbers without getting more than a little wet.

    "Luthor, here."

   "Hey, Lex, it's me, Clark.  Listen, are you still in Metropolis?"

   "I am."

   "Good, I caught you…"

   "Actually, I've been trying to reach you, Clark.  Your mom said she didn't know where you were."  There seemed to be a slight question in Lex's voice.

   "Yeah, I'm in Metropolis, too.  What's up?"

   "I don't think we should talk about it on the phone.  Do you know where the LuthorCorp building is downtown?"

   Clark though of the multistory steel and glass structure visible from the interstate.  Even for Metropolis, the building dominated the skyline.  "Everyone knows where that is, Lex.  It's kinda hard to miss."

   "Do you think you could come down here?"

   "Yeah, sure.  Give me, what, ten minutes."

   Clark followed Lex's directions about where to leave his car, although since it was the weekend the huge downtown parking structure was mostly deserted.  He was surprised, though, to see a security guard on duty in the building's plush lobby.  But then the Luthors were known for being paranoid about that kind of thing.

   He scuffed his sneakers across the glossy marble floor, feeling as out of place as he looked.  The guard called upstairs, and after a few terse words with someone on the other end directed Clark to the bank of elevators.  

    "Fortieth floor," he said gruffly, clearly a little suspicious of the scruffy kid being granted admittance.  Clark thanked him politely anyway.

    The elevator ran silently, not even Muzak to distract one from the task at hand.  Finally the doors opened with a soft whoosh.

    Lex emerged through a set of double glass doors behind an unoccupied secretary's desk.

   "Clark, great.  C'mon back."

   He dutifully followed his friend down another plush hallway.  The whole office screamed of subtle but expensive decorators, from the pale rose carpet to the wood paneling.   Clark knew Lionel has never spent much time in one place; like the house in Smallville, this place was probably more for show than anything else.  Although he supposed all the hundreds of people who worked in various other Luthor enterprises probably occupied the lower floors.

    Lex showed him into a large corner office; the two outer walls were glass, giving a stunning view of Metropolis.  Clark felt a little nervous being so high, but the view was amazing.

   "Wow," he admitted sheepishly.  "It's like being up in the clouds; like flying."

    "A little hard to fly when you're surrounded by steel and glass, Clark.  Want something to drink?"

   "No, thanks."  Clark noticed this office not only boasted a huge and very heavy-looking desk, but also a mini fridge and a wet bar.  "This your office?"

   "Yeah," Lex shrugged.  "Never spent much time here, but my father feels it's important someone be seen around the building until he recovers.  Keep the plebeians on their toes, so to speak."

     "Makes sense, I guess.  What's up?"

   "Clark, have you been to see Ms. McKay?  I've tried to reach her by phone but I haven't had any luck."

   "Yeah, it was kind of bothering me that we never found out what was in Roshenko's letters.  But she still won't tell me anything.  I just made her angry."

    "I'm sorry to hear that," Lex sighed.  "But you may be the least of her troubles."

   Clark frowned.  "What do you mean?"

   Lex leaned against the corner of his desk.  "LuthorCorp's office in St. Petersburg has done some checking into Dr. Roshenko's past for me, Clark."

   His heart seemed to stop beating for a minute.  "What did you find out?"

   Lex rubbed his forehead.  "You and Chloe were right.  He's not who he claimed to be.  According to official Soviet records Evgeny Roshenko died in Stalingrad in 1947 at the age of nineteen."

   "Died?"  Clark thought of the miniature photographs he and Chloe had found.  "How is that possible?"

   "If I had to guess I'd say someone else stole his identity after his death.  Who knows why?  But the man calling himself Dr. Roshenko was definitely not the real one."

   "Man," Clark sat down.  "Do you think Angela knew about it?"

   "If she didn't before he died, she does now.  Why else would she be so insistent that no one else sees his letters?"

   Clark felt a little queasy.  What Lex said sounded so reasonable, and yet…he still couldn't believe Angela would be mixed up in something like this.  On the other hand…

   "She still has them, Lex.  The letters--I wasn't able to get them away from her."  Some reporter he was.

   Lex shrugged.  "If I was her I would have destroyed them by now."

    Remembering something, Clark shook his head.  "No, she still has at least one—I think she was reading it this afternoon.  She stuffed it in her pocket when I came in."

    Lex looked at him thoughtfully.  "Clark, I'm sorry.  I know you like her a lot but this does mean she is probably the one who killed the doctor."

   "I know, Lex, but I still can't see it.  So Roshenko wasn't who he said he was—was that worth killing over?"

   "You're forgetting the money, Clark.  People have killed for far less.  And I imagine Dr. Hamilton was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time." Lex's lips twisted in a wry smile.  "Who would have thought it?"

   "Yeah.  Do you think the D.A. will drop the charges now?"

   "If Angela destroyed the evidence we don't have any proof to give him, Clark.  Just a lot of speculation."

   "But the Soviet records…"

   "There could conceivably have been an error there.  I've got a call in to the State Department to see if they can check their records against what I found out.  They've got a lot more access than I do.  In any case, the prosecutor isn't going to give up a pretty solid case because we tell him too."

   Clark stood.  "I'm going to go talk to Angela again.  She's got to know this won't stay hidden forever.  Maybe I can get her to hand over whatever she still has."

   Lex looked at him silently for a long moment.  "You really feel strongly about this, don't you?" 

   His words so neatly mirrored Jonathan Kent's that Clark almost laughed.  

   "Look, Lex, I know you probably think I'm an idiot…"

   "I don't think you're an idiot, Clark—you know that," the older man corrected.

   "Chloe says I just never want to think anyone is the bad guy.  If Angela did this I do think she should be held responsible.  But I just want to give her a fair chance, too."

   "I understand, Clark."  Lex smiled.  "Truth be told I kind of admire how much faith you have in people.  A lot more than I have.  But I'm coming with you anyway."

   "You are?"

   "You don't think I'd let you take on something like this alone, do you?  Besides, Chloe would kill me if she found out I didn't watch your back."

     p

     Clark decided to let Lex drive; he was too upset to want to pay attention to his driving.  They took Lex's Porsche, the one Lana had nearly crashed when she'd been poisoned by the Nicodemus flower, now neatly detailed and repainted.

    Clark couldn't help but think about all the secrets people kept. Lana that she was maybe (maybe) a little bit attracted to him; Pete about how jealous he was of Lex; and Lex, well, Lex kept more secrets than Clark would ever be able to fathom.  But what none of them knew what that he, Clark, was keeping the biggest secret of all.  Like Dr. Evgeny Roshenko, or whoever he was, Clark was living a lie.  Only in Clark's case he had no idea what the truth might turn out to be.  He wondered if maybe that was why Angela had done what she had—maybe the lies had built up until she couldn't stand it anymore.  He sighed audibly, and Lex glanced over at him.

   "Relax, Clark," he advised.  "And let me do the talking, ok?"

   Clark nodded glumly as Lex's cell phone rang and Lex answered it.  The rain was coming down a bit heavier now; still not the full force of the storm, but enough to make the horizon seem like a blurry smear.  He thought about the first time he had met Lex.  It had been answering his cell phone that had contributed to Lex's losing control of his car and smashing through the guardrail.  If Clark hadn't been who he was Lex would have died that day.  Yet, if he told Lex right now the truth, about who he was and what he had done, would Lex react as Angela had?  The thought made him shiver a little even in the warm car.

     Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lex' left hand tighten a little on the wheel, and Clark looked at him.  He seemed very involved in what the person on the other end was saying.  After a moment Lex looked over at him.

   "It's my contact at the State Department.  He says they ran a full check and what they found matches what we've found out.  Roshenko definitely wasn't who he claimed to be."

     Clark stared out the windshield, but then after a moment turned hastily back to his friend.  "Lex, ask them if anyone else can request the kind of check you did."

    Lex regarded him a little oddly, but dutifully repeated the question, then the response.  "Yes, if it's a legitimate inquiry relevant to business or public safety."  His eyes widened slightly as he understood the gist of Clark's question.

    "Abermarle, has a woman named Angela McKay made any similar inquiries, say, in the past year or so?"  Lex listened thoughtfully, and then nodded.  "Thank you," he said tersely, hanging up and returning his cell phone to his coat pocket.

   "Well, what did he say?"

   "No inquires from our friend Angela," Lex shrugged.  "Of course she may have gotten the information from somewhere else.  The only inquiry related to Roshenko came in about ten years ago, and that person never even bothered following up."

   Clark felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.  "Did he say who that was?"

     Lex was looking at him strangely again.  "Somebody named Carroll at the University.  Why?"

    "Oh my god."  Clark breathed out loudly.

   "Clark, what's wrong?"

   "Oh my god, Lex."  Clark shook his head.  "I left her alone with him."

p

      Angela re-read the letter again, gently smoothing the old-fashioned onionskin paper.  The letter had been typewritten, no doubt on the old machine in Dr. Roshenko's office.  When his lawyer had brought it to her it had been sealed neatly in an envelope, with her name written across it.  

     She couldn't help but tear up a little, thinking of her old friend hunched over his typewriter to provide her with this one last message, and then going to all the trouble to give it to his lawyer for safe delivery in case of his death.  Of course, reading it, she didn't get the feeling the doctor had known just how sudden and untimely that death would be.  It seemed more like the words of a man who just wanted to get his accounts in order than a confession.

   It all made sense now: the love letters, the forged documents.  Why Roshenko never talked about his past.

   Because that past had been a lie.  He admitted it, openly.  He had not been born Evgeny Roshenko, but rather Janus Illyovitch.  The love letters had been his, one of the few pieces of his past he couldn't bring himself to part with.  Illyovitch had been a petty criminal, forgery mostly, working in cities across Europe.  During the war he'd been drafted into the Red Army, where he'd made the acquaintance of a boy about the same age named Evgeny Roshenko.  The two teenagers became friends, bonding over a mutual distaste for Stalinist Russia and an interest in science.  They talked about possibly emigrating to the west after the war, but soon found that to be impossible in the repressive climate of the day.  No Soviet university would take Illyovitch because of his criminal record.  His life seemed to be at a dead end.  Then his friend Roshenko had been killed in an industrial accident, and Illyovitch hatched a plan.  He would take his late friend's name, and defect to the west.  There, the hostility of the Cold War would ensure he would be free of any connection to his criminal past.  His plan worked, and the American government helped him resettle in the United States, never knowing he was not who he claimed to be.  The new Evgeny Roshenko was allowed to attend American universities, building a distinguished career and growing more and more distant from the man he had once been.

   "Now, I am a tired old man, Angela," he had written.  "My work stands on its own; and after I am dead it will no longer matter who knows the truth about me.  I am sorry to hand you this burden, but as my last student you are entitled to know the truth.  I would tell you to do whatever you feel is right with this knowledge."

    Angela carefully wiped away her tears before they could stain the delicate pages.  

   Poor Dr. Roshenko.  She couldn't imagine keeping a secret like that for so long.  Was that why he had never married, so he wouldn't burden another person with it?  What had happened to the woman, Mina, who had written him such passionate letters?  Had he been forced to leave her behind, along with everything else?

   The door behind her opened, and she looked up, hastily running a hand across her eyes.  "Oh, hi.  I'm almost done here."

   "Yes, I imagine you are, Ms. McKay."  Dr. Carroll smiled at her.  "What are you reading?"

   Angela folded the letter back up.  "Oh, nothing, just a letter."

   Carroll stepped closer to her, and Angela nervously stood up.  There was something about the intensity of his expression that unnerved her.

   "The one Roshenko's lawyer brought you?"

   "How did you know…"

   "The walls of a university have ears, Angela.  You should know that by now."

   She edged nervously to one side.  She'd never seen Dr. Carroll like this; most of the time the man didn't seem to have any emotions at all.  "You were eavesdropping."

   "I'm entitled to know what happens in my department, Ms. McKay.  Dr. Roshenko never understood that and I'm afraid he passed that bad habit on to you."  He held out a neatly manicured hand.  "I'd like to see it, please."

   Angela was starting to get angry.  "No."

   His hand flashed out much quicker that she would have thought possible, connecting with the side of her face and knocking her to the floor.  She lay there for a moment next to the lab table, too dazed to do anything but touch her face gingerly.  Her hand came away with blood on it, and she tasted blood.  He must have split her lip.  She stared up at him in surprise.  

   "What…?"

   She wasn't able to finish the expression because he bent down and grabbed her by the collar.  His eyes looked glazed as he shook her.  Hard.  Angela was suddenly struck by the memory of those blue fingerprints around Roshenko's neck.  She kicked out as hard as she could with her bent leg, feeling it connect solidly with his solar plexus.  Twisting out of his grasp and stumbling to her feet, she lunged for the door but didn't get more than a few steps before he grabbed her by the waist, knocking her to the floor.  Angela reached out for something to defend herself, only succeeding in knocking over one of the racks of test tubes and landing amidst the shattered glass.  Before she could swing her arm up for another blow she felt something cold and hard press against her temple.

     His lips were wet with saliva as he stared into her face, nearly nose to nose.  

   "What are you going to do?"  She was almost unable to believe what was happening.  Almost.

   "I'm afraid I can't leave you here for them to find.  Especially not when you've been so clearly wracked with remorse over killing your friend.  You're just going to have to disappear, Angela."  In spite of his appearance he spoke as calmly as if they were at a faculty budget meeting.  That was Dean Carroll--always rational, always in control, always with a plan.  

     And clearly Dean Carroll had gone insane. 

P

     It was raining harder by the time Lex pulled up alongside the science building, and Clark had to squint to see that the windows were dark.

   "Damn."  Lex put down his cell phone; he'd been trying to reach the lab repeatedly, but without success.  "Still no answer.  I'm calling the Metropolis P.D."

   "I'll go see if I can find Angela or Dr. Carroll," Clark said, quickly jumping out of the car.

   "Clark, wait, it isn't safe…"

   Clark ignored his friend, circling the building.  With the rain and the coming darkness he was disoriented, trying to remember which door would lead down to the lab quickest.  There were too many floors full of offices and furniture between here and there for his x-ray vision to be much good—he just saw a jumble of images, none of them moving.

   The main doors had been locked, and Clark hoped again what he'd been repeating on the drive over: that everyone had gone home.  He didn't dare just smash thorough the glass.  Clark tried the side doors as well, with no more success.  He did, however, locate the door that he seemed to remember led directly to a stairwell.  His vision confirmed this, and as gently and quietly as he could he turned the knob in his hand until the steel lock gave way and the door unlatched.

   He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone laid a hand on his shoulder.  It was Lex—how long had he been standing there? 

   "The police are on the way.  Did you find a way in?"

   Clark nodded.  He wished he knew of some way to distract Lex, but there was no hope for it.  

   Cautiously they descended the stairs to the basement.  They came out into the dim hallway.

   "Do you hear anything?"

   "No.  She must have gone home."

   In spite of his words Lex kept walking, and Clark didn't dare stand still long enough to focus and use his vision.

   They cautiously opened the double doors.  "Lights are still on," Clark observed.  "She wouldn't have gone off and left them on, would she?"

   Looking around the room Clark could see that Angela's bag and the cardboard box were still on the floor by her worktable.  He scanned the room as carefully as he could, but couldn't penetrate many of the larger machines and cabinets.  Of course, this was a laboratory—most things would be shielded with lead to protect them from radiation leaks.

   "Clark, look."  Lex pointed to shards of glass scattered across the floor, clearly from a large and heavy-looking test tube rack that had been upended.   

   He sensed movement a split-second before Lex did, and turned around to see Dean Carroll step out from behind one of the large cabinets lining the side of the room.  In one hand he held a small but still very lethal looking gun; the other he had wrapped around Angela McKay's throat.

   Both Clark and Lex froze where they were; the gun was pressed quite firmly against Angela's temple.

   Lex was the first to recover.

   "The police are on the way, Dr. Carroll.  You had better let her go."

   The doctor made a clucking sound with his tongue, and pressed the gun hard enough against Angela's head to make the woman wince.

   "I don't think so.  They always take ages to get here.  More than enough time to deal with all this unpleasantness."

   Clark noticed Angela's lip was bleeding, and he balled his hands into fists.  He could move fast, but fast enough to stop a bullet fired at point-blank range?  "Angela, are you all right?"

   "She's fine, for the time being," Carroll answered, "and if you want her to stay that way I suggest the two of you move."  He gestured for the two men to move back and to the right, so that they were in effect circling each other.  Apparently Carroll wanted the security of the lab table at his back.

   "Would somebody please tell me," Angela said out as best she could with the doctor's arm across her windpipe, "what the hell is going on?"

   "I'm afraid we've all been wrong," Lex explained gently, careful not to raise his voice and startle the other man into further violence.  "It wasn't Dr. Hamilton who killed Roshenko.  It was Dr. Carroll."

    Angela twisted to look at her assailant, clearly horrified to have her fears confirmed.

   "It was a good enough scheme on the surface, I suppose—blackmailing Dr. Roshenko to keep his secret.  What did you do, threaten to tell the feds?  I doubt they'd care much after all these years. But why kill him, doctor?  Wasn't bleeding him dry for years enough?"  Only Lex could sound so lackadaisical when there was a maniac with a gun in the room.

   "Enough?"  Carroll laughed, making his gun hand tremble even so slightly.  Clark winced.  "I've run this department for fifteen years.  _I'm_ the one who's held it together, even with budget cuts and student enrollment increases.  _I'm_ the one who fights with the administration so men like Roshenko can sit down here and build their own little worlds.  Why shouldn't he pay me back for all that?  Oh, it was bad enough that Roshenko just did whatever he wanted, but then he had to bring Steven Hamilton back into the picture.  There's no way we could weather another scandal like that one."

   "What did he do, doctor?"  Clark was beginning to understand what Lex was doing—trying to keep the man talking so he couldn't harm Angela before the police arrived.  "Did he decide to come clean?"

   "In a manner of speaking.  He was tired of paying up, and told me that the next time I came to him for money he'd go to President Brooke and tell him the truth, tell him about me."  Carroll glanced myopically at the young woman he held.  "You can understand why I couldn't permit that, can't you?"  

    Angela only shuddered.

   "But for your plan to work Hamilton had to take the fall," Lex explained.  "How are you going to explain three more bodies?"

   "You know, I don't really care anymore, Mr. Luthor," Carroll said calmly.

   Clark still couldn't decide if he should try for the gun.  He knew he could get to it in a split second, but if something went wrong and the man fired…

   "And there are three of us and only one of you," Clark said with false bravado.

   "I've got the gun, young man."  The dean smiled indulgently.  "But I suppose you're right."  Before even Clark could react Carroll lifted the gun and brought it down against the side of Angela's head.  He dropped her, unconscious, to the floor, and stepped over her.

   "You son of a…"

   "Temper, temper, Mr. Luthor," the doctor chided.  He now held the gun straight out in front of him, forcing Lex and Clark to back up a little more.

   "Now, I grant you, I'm not sure how I'll explain the two of you.  Maybe you broke in here intent on pursuing justice against poor Ms. McKay.  Or maybe you'll just disappear like she will."

   Glancing at where Angela lay next to the table, Clark felt a tremendous surge of relief.  At least she was out of harm's way.  Now he could get the gun without worrying she'd get caught in the crossfire.  Unfortunately that meant doing so in front of Lex, but since he still couldn't hear any sirens he was out of options.  Carefully he shifted his feet into position.

   "I'm sorry, Lex," he offered.  He wasn't really sure what he meant—sorry for the lies?  Sorry you had to find out this way?—but Lex clearly took him to mean he was sorry for getting him into this mess in the first place.

   "It's ok, Clark," Lex said.

   Clark was about to dash forward and seize the gun, when something extraordinary happened.  A piece of steel pipe came down hard against Carroll's right shoulder, and with a cry of pain he dropped the gun.  He turned around to see his assailant and the pipe connected with his jaw.  The man dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap.

   Behind him stood a bleeding and wobbly Angela McKay, brandishing one of the steel connectors from the test tube rack.  Clark had been so focused on what he was about to do, and all of its implications, he hadn't even seen her.  Fortunately neither had Dr. Carroll.

     Clark rushed forward and grabbed her by the shoulders before she fell.  Angela reached up under her blond hair.

   "I'm bleeding, Clark," she said randomly.

   "Yeah, you sure are."  He did his best to steady her on her feet, unsure what to do.

     Lex reached down and with a handkerchief carefully removed the gun that had fallen from Dr. Carroll's outstretched hand.

   Angela nodded towards the unconscious figure.  "Check his pockets."

   Lex tentatively reached into the man's suit jacket and produced a folded letter from an inside pocket.

   "My letter," Angela explained, swaying a little. "From Dr. Roshenko."

   Clark decided he needed to do some first aid.  "Angela, sit down before you fall down."  She half sat, half fell against the table, and sat propped up against the side of it looking at him dazedly.  In the distance Clark could finally make out the sound of sirens.

   "Better late then never, I guess," he smiled.

   Lex pressed a clean handkerchief against Angela's temple to stop the bleeding.  "I think she's going to need stitches, Clark.  She probably has a concussion from the blow to the head."

   "I'm fine," Angela lied.  She seemed fixated on Carroll's form.  "He killed Dr. Roshenko."

   "We know, Angela," Clark said gently.  "We heard him, too."

   "Hum," she said distractedly.  "Bet you two thought I did it."  With that sage proclamation she closed her eyes and slumped against Clark.

   "She's out cold this time."

   "No wonder, really."  Lex opened the letter and scanned its contents, the held it up for Clark to read.  "It's Roshenko's confession.  Dr. Carroll must have been afraid it would mention something about the blackmail scheme.  That's why he came back for it."

   "And nearly killed Angela in the process," Clark frowned.

   "But all's well that end's well, Clark," Lex smiled.  "Angela's safe.  And just think of the story you and Chloe can write about it."

     "If Chloe forgives me for taking off without her.  And we both owe Angela an apology, for suspecting her." Clark sighed.  "Seems like all I do lately is apologize to women."

   Lex laughed.  "Welcome to the adult world, Clark."

P

       In the lobby of Metropolis General Hospital, Clark did his best to explain everything that had happened to Detectives Bright and Harris.  

   "So you're saying you and Ms. McKay knowingly withheld evidence from a police investigation?"  Harris rubbed the back of his neck.  

   "We didn't know it was evidence," Clark said again.  "We didn't know what it was."

   "You're lucky you didn't get killed," Bright told him.

   "What's going to happen to Dr. Carroll now?"

   "Ms. McKay delivered quite a blow with that piece of pipe."  Detective Bright almost grinned.  "But Carroll's no dummy—as soon as he came to he demanded his lawyer.  But considering we have three witnesses to his confession, I'd say the D.A. should be willing to drop the charges against Dr. Hamilton."

   Clark glanced across the room, where Lex was on his cell phone with Hamilton's lawyer.  "I hope so."

   "Ms. McKay's given us permission to recover the letters from her apartment," Harris continued.  "She's also handed over the last letter Roshenko wrote to her."

   Bright looked thoughtful.  "Hard to believe he lied to everyone all those years and got away with it."

   "Not completely—Carroll suspected it, and was able to use it to blackmail Roshenko for years," Clark corrected.

   "And the State Department claims it knew about him all along, but since his record's been clean they didn't care," Harris added.  "Of course, they might just be covering their butts.  There's going to be a lot of publicity about this case that could make a lot of people look bad."

      Clark shook his head.  He knew that bad publicity would probably include the Metropolis P.D, who had had the wrong suspect in custody for nearly a month.  Neither Harris nor Bright would tell him whether they'd looked at Carroll as a suspect at all, but if he had to guess he'd say they hadn't.  

   Across the room Lex hung up his cell phone with a satisfied smile.  Hamilton's lawyer was on his way to the hospital, to corner the two detectives about the new break in the case.  He'd told Lex he hoped to have Hamilton out of jail the next day.  Lex made a note to arrange for Hamilton to take a long vacation, far away from Metropolis.

     "Mr. Luthor?"

   He looked up to see a nurse standing at his elbow.

   "Ms. McKay is awake and would like to see you."

   Lex glanced across the room, but Clark was still deep in conversation with the two detectives.  He nodded, and followed the nurse back into the urgent care ward.

   He'd never forgotten the antiseptic smell of Metropolis General.  His doctors had kept him here for nearly a month after the meteor shower, running test after test to try and determine what had caused his hair loss and if there would be lingering health effects.  Against his mother's wishes his father had finally put his foot down and insisted Lex return to school.  To this day Lex wasn't sure if he appreciated or resented his father's actions.  All he knew was that he couldn't stand hospitals.  

     But he supposed he owed it to Angela to see her.  After all, if Clark hadn't stuck to his convictions Angela might have gotten killed.  Once again, it was Clark, and not Lex, who stood in the role of hero.

    She was sitting propped up in bed in a private room, with a patch of gauze covering her temple.  She smiled wanly.

   "Hey."

   "Hey.  How do you feel?"

   "How do I _look _like I feel?"

     Lex smiled.  "The doctors say you've got a concussion; they had to put a few stitches in where Carroll hit you with the gun."

   Angela raised a hand to the bandage.  "Everything's a little fuzzy; I think the painkillers they gave me have made me dopey."  She looked at him closely.  "How did you and Clark know I needed rescuing?"

   "Clark just sort of sensed you were in trouble.  Believe me, he's good at that."

   "Yeah, I guess he is.  Anyway, thank you—for, like, my life."

    "You're welcome.  I've been trying to reach you for the last two weeks, but…"  Lex let his voice trail off.

   Angela was silent for a long moment.  Then she pointed across the room.

   "Look in my bag."

   Lex regarded her oddly, but did as she bade.  The nurses had left her possessions on a chair, and searching through her bag he came to what felt like a stack of papers bundled with a rubber band.

   "His letters?"

   "No."  Angela shook her head, then winced.  "Look at them."

   Lex studied them for a moment.  "They're checks.  From Dr. Hamilton."

   "To Dr. Roshenko.  I took some of his professional papers from his house, and these were mixed in."

   "Why do you want me to see them?"

   Angela smiled, ever so slightly.  "You'll notice Roshenko never cashed any of them.  I don't know if he forgot or if he never intended to.  But I did some checking."

   "Really."  Lex did his best to appear nonchalant.

   "C'mon, Lex.  You covered your tracks well, but not that well.  I know Dr. Hamilton was working for you.  That's how he funded his research.  And that's why you showed up at my lab looking for some way to clear his name.  Wasn't it?"

   Lex knew it was a rhetorical question.  He sat gingerly on the edge of her bed.

   "I've just been helping him out."

   She looked at him skeptically.  "Uh huh.  Clark doesn't know, does he?"

   "No."  He looked directly into her eyes.  "Are you going to tell him?"

   Angela glanced away.  "No.  But only because I think you should.  Lex, friends as good as you and Clark shouldn't keep secrets from each other." She smiled enigmatically.  "Believe me, I know."

   "I know you do."  He wasn't sure what to do, he just sat there.  "Is there anything you need?"  

   "No.  I think I'm just going to rest for a while." Her eyes had already drifted shut.  "See you around, Lex," she said sleepily.

   Lex waited a few minutes, until he was sure she was asleep.  Then he stood up and carefully bent over her.  He kissed her very gently, on the forehead.

   "Goodbye, Angela."  

P

     "So the Metropolis police aren't going to press charges against you or Angela?"

   Clark had invited Pete and Chloe over to talk about the end of the case.  His parents even let him order a pizza for the occasion.  They hadn't said so, but Clark could tell they were proud of him.  He still had to help his dad repair the barn roof, though.

   "No, but there were pretty insistent that we had better keep our noses clean.  Which is fine with me—I don't want to get mixed up in anything like this ever again."  He picked the pineapple Pete had insisted on ordering off his slice of pizza.

   "I think you got really lucky, Clark," Pete opined, helping himself to Clark's cast-off pineapple.  "You solved the case _and_ you saved the girl," he winked.  "She must have been really grateful."

   "Not really—more unconscious," Clark corrected.  Why were they always unconscious?  It never happened that way in the movies.

   "And not only did Carroll not get away with the murder," Chloe said proudly, "but the University says Roshenko's lab will be reopened next week, as soon as Angela's feeling up to going back to work.  You'll never guess who they found to replace Dr. Roshenko."

   "I'll bite," Pete said.  "Who?"

   Chloe grinned.  "Dr. Emil Hamilton."

   "Another Hamilton?"  Pete groaned.  "That can't be good."

   "No, I called Angela when I heard and she says the guy's a genius.  Been doing really hush-hush government stuff but he's excited about continuing Roshenko's work, too.  And since they're friends it means Angela's job's safe, too."

   "What happened to Hamilton, the other one, I mean?"  Clark wondered aloud.  "There haven't been any interviews in the paper or anything about him.

   "Vanished into thin air," Chloe explained.  

   "Probably skipped town until things cool down," Pete suggested.  "Too bad—he could put together a heck of a lawsuit against the Metropolis P.D.  Apparently they bought Carroll's story that he was at home during the murder, and never dug any further.  If they had, this whole mess might never had happened."

   "Don't forget—it was Lex's digging that turned up who Roshenko really was."  Clark couldn't help sticking up for his friend.  

   Chloe stuck her elbow in his ribs.  "I still can't believe you went to Lex for help without me."

   Looking at her from under his lashes, Clark frowned.  "Are you still mad?"

   She was thoughtful for a moment.  "No, I guess not.  Since I'm technically still grounded I wouldn't have been much help anyway.  But, Clark, are you sure you want to give me the byline in the Smallville _Ledger_?  Your name should be there, too, especially since the _Daily Planet _didn't give you and Lex any credit."

   Clark shook his head.  "No.  I've thought about it a lot and you should have it.  It will be something else for your portfolio.  I'm not sure I'm cut out for journalism, anyway."

   "Don't sell yourself short, Clark," Pete countered.  "You cracked this case wide open.  Journalists don't get much better than that."

   "Maybe."  

     He'd spent a lot of time thinking over Dr. Roshenko's life, and his death.  Clark still wasn't sure what to make of the man.  Could it have been that easy for him to live a double life?  Was he really the criminal, the scam artist Janus Illyovitch?  Had being Roshenko just been a convenient cover?  Or had adopting another identity allowed Roshenko to become the man he'd always wanted to be, a man trusted and loved by those who knew him?  Clark knew Angela would say the second was true.  Lex, ever skeptical about human nature, would probably say the first was.

     As for Clark himself, he would probably never know for sure.  

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